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CONTENTS. 


PMI Oat a tw eet Pe lg oye 
On a Girdle RN Rtas ria ew whe | i'6 6 
* Love alters not . ® Ks ° 4 . e 6 
At the Church Gate . AS i ne eG ae a he ee NE ay 
Britain’s Ida MPa ca Satoh ° a 104 Bee é 
Romeo and Juliet : e or ane Siti. ot einicke mae 
ToCelia . . . ° ° 
Why so Wan and Pale? aH hL Ler? tela sail ecm Ue] ve 
@#”AMaFuture . : Sanat 
Serenade — Ah, Sweet! thou little enn rest Seg oa 
5 Reem i ge 17 
Highland Mary . Sieieth Cs tee Me. Ole 
Come, rest inthis Bosem . sf . ° A : x o) ae 
BiewasathentomofDelight . . . .« «© « « 
SIMS CAULY 2 kel ket eee 
Ruth . eae F ° ee ° ° ° ° va) ae 
When we Two parted = = e ° ° « : 
To the Lady Hamilton aah Sieve Wer) wy. ete 
Angeland Woman . . . ° £ ° ° a <a 
MPM VeL so ee ks a oe), 4 ee 
From “The Angel in the House” . OE ge Arar) a i 
SS 0S Pr Tee oad 
Drama : . . ° . ° e ° ° Py * + 30 
The Indian Serenade. . . ° Ss AK at vA Ae eaten BIO 
To Lucasta, On going to the Wars . ° ° mas é 1G 4F 
»  *Tis Sweettothink . - ye Coa EA ee SS ane Tae T | 
“S ’ The Evening Time . ° e : - e . ; a 35; 
: 


7 


io 


oe 


isronymus 


Ne 
. 


ms eS 


A 


a an 


eeLines . < : ° ° ° ° . e eae 2134 

gtEros . E ; ° e . ° ° ° e ; Srey 

‘ The Day-Dream . . . . ° ° . . ° e035 

: The Flower 0? Dumblane . : - A : oe" 30 

>, 4 * When Stars are in the Quiet ies 7 A ea . 137 
; i 


KX 
ae er 


2 CONTENTS. 


Leve’s Thread of Gold «© ~ . 
Millais’s ‘‘ Huguenots” . =, Wes 
Good-Night J “ 4 P e 
Hearts. 2 ° wer Os S 
A Heart for ew One * ° ° 
I waited till the Ries ah te e 
Rest . : ° ° e 
Twin Stars Aloft . : . 
Love took me softly by the Hand ° 
Song — Nay, but you. A ~ . 
Song — When Sparrows build . A 
Destiny . ‘ . . . ° 
Light . > f A ° ° 
Cupid’s Arrow . i : ° . 
Two Lovers 5 : ; ' * 
The Low-backed Car . : : : 
Come into the Garden, Maud . - 


Sonnets : ; . ; ° : 
Because m : ; C ° 
The Banks of Deon : : ° : 
ITlove my Jean . b : : : 


A Valediction . ° . ° . 
AChain . a “ - . ° 
Love wakes and weeps “ ' ° 
In Three Days . . A ° 
The Bonnie Wee Thing . . 
Annie Laurie. 5 : rs 4 
I'll never love thee more . - ° 
Rosalind’s Madrigal . : . ° 
Song — Pack Clouds away. a Neti 
Seng—Askmenomore . . . 
The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 
Move Eastward, Happy Earth . 2 
Serenade — Now the Toils of Day are 
MyStar... 4 s ‘ s 
@Whenthouartnearme . . . 
One Morning, Oh! soEarly . . 
Before the Daybreak . ° ° ° 
A Warning . : ‘ P shuts 
To Mary . e ° . e. e 


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PRFISABSIBAAR IAS S 


CONTENTS. 3 


The Invitation . f Dike NM Teter ie ol) Cot RuSs 
The Miller’s aehies Z ° ° “ . = ° BON st 
A Voice by the Cedar Tree A ge ° ° ° ° Lit 86 
Divided E “ é . . ° ° . ° ° Sie: 
A Bird-Song ; > z ° : . : . x | g2 
To Althea, from Prison . I . 4 : , ANE fy) 
Songs from the Princess . Pipe ns y F) aa 
SNEED EIEC LI i fa Ue a oe ele kee 4 ee a 
Love ina Life . A = ° ‘ : 3 : : aoe 
Love . : Oy ha thes ik its . ° OR 
Life ina Love . K ° ° ° s ° ° : Hb ikea) 
Not ours the Vows . :. ° é A . rs : oie) 
For the Future . r . ° ° : 2 ‘ ° . 100 
Comfort 5 : p 5 ; A ° 7 2 é - 02 
Seven Times Three. Love . ° iat ‘ ° + 103 
The Violet . Z : 3 ° ° * ’ s - 104 
Song — In Love, if ae be Love . ° ee n + 105 
One Way of Love 4 A “ “ ‘ . ° é e305 
Switzerland 2 ° ‘ 4 ° * ° A » - 106 
Evelyn Hope . : ° “ . : : A ° . 120 
Song— Oh, say not, my Love . ° A : . 122 
Wisteria. é : 2 ° ° ; M A tes 


Sonnet : 5 Fi . ° -~ e ; ‘ : Bas 
Married Lovers . 5 4 ° : : S ° A . 126 
How Many Times. ° . . . . . ° BL 
James Lee’s Wife A Bt. a5) ve Bar . - 128, 


The Poet’s Bridal-Day Song . Ma oe ° . ‘ of [E32 
My Lady Singing ° ° ° ° ° ° TSA 
Madrigal . PONE Rt am ° ° . : 335 
York and Lancaster . . F ° ° ° ° : AynES5 
Jeanie Morrison Baa « ° SUTkS OMY,» . ; 136 
I met wi’ her I luved Yestereen oy P : 2 ESO 
A Woman’s Question . ° A . ° p . A - 140 
A Woman’s Answer . : “ 4 : ° E F si X42 
True or False. A ‘ ae SY SA oP : 844 
I saw thee weep . : ‘ ‘ ° . y j WY ty 
Origin of Love . ° A ° ° A ° ° . BN Pte: 
The Dream . ( : : ° ; é “ . a iE4 
Love . R ° a ° ° ‘ . > A ~ . 156 
All for Love ° 6H) eth te ° Se tiie . - 360 


4 CONTENTS. 


The Lost Love . My e ° A Ps 
The True Beauty e e ° wi Pe 


To Dianeme . ; : < 2 ° 
Blind Love . i c . e ° 
Where shall the Lover vest? - = - 
A Birthday . ; . . e 


From ‘‘ The Winter’s Tale" ase ° e 
Sonnets from the Portuguese . ° e 
From “‘ The Epithalamium” . . «6 
A Complaint ; “ : ‘ : 
To Anthea . ; ° : : 
Passages from ‘“‘ Paradite Lost ae 3) Ae 
Song —I prithee send me back my Heart. 
A Match . , ; : : s . 


Lines . \ ° A ° . ‘ 
If to thy Heart i were as near . a caite 
Caeli .. ; - - = P . < 


Gathered Roses . . = - . ° 
The Time I’ve lost in wooing .~ . . 
John Anderson, my Jo ‘ F ° 
Faded Leaves . s : “ “ F 


Urania le - é « ° 
Sir Launcelot aud Queen Giinerent “ : 
Guinevere . e . ; e ° 
Altho’ thou maun never be mine ° : 
Changes . : ° ° . ° e 
‘Two Loves . « ° = ° ° e 
King and Slave . ° ° : ° ° 
Love . ‘ 5 ° ° e . e 
Fidelis . ‘ ; e rn . e 


A Love Token . : ° . . ° 
To Mary in Heaven . “4 ° ° ° 
Margaret alone at her Spinning-Wheel . 
Margaret to Dolcino . : . 3 ° 
Dolcino to Margaret . : F ° . 


Love’s Omnipresence . ‘ ; ° . 
Inclusions . 2 . . . ° e 
Insufficiency ¥ : . . Oats 


Translations from Heinrich Heine . i. 
Tristram and Iseult . p 3 “ A 


LOVE POEMS. 


—_07595 0o ——_. 


LOVE rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
And men below, and saints above, 
For love is heaven and heaven is love. 


The Lay of the Last Minstreh 


Fe eg 8 a NS Ba 


My true-love hath my heart and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given; 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; 
There never was a better bargain driven: 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 


His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his, because in me it bides: 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 


Sir Puitie SIDNEY, 


LOVE POEMS. 


ON A GIRDLE. 


THAT which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind: 

No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what this hath done. 


It was my heaven’s extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move! 


A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair: 
Give me but what this ribbon bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 


EpMUND WALLER. 


LOVE ALTERS NOT. 


LET me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove : — 


O no! it is an ever fixéd mark 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be 


taken. 


LOVE POEMS. 7 


Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle’s compass come ; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom: — 


If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
Seana as eee 


Ad THE CHURCH GATE. 


ALTHOUGH I enter not, 

Yet round about the spot 
Dft-times I hover: 

And near the sacred gate, 

With longing eyes I wait, 
Expectant of her. 


The Minster bell tolls out 
Above the city’s rout, 

And noise and humming: 
They’ve hushed the Minster bell ; 
The organ ‘gins to swell: 

She’s coming, she’s coming! 


My lady comes at last, 

Timid, and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither, 

With modest eyes downcast : 

She comes — she’s here — she’s past: L 
May heaven go with her! 


LOVE POEMS. 


Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! 

Pour out your praise or plaint 
Meekly and duly ; 

I will not enter there 

To sully your pure prayer 
With thoughts unruly. 


But suffer me to pace 

Round the forbidden place, 
Lingering a minute 

Like outcast spirits who wait 

And see through heaven’s gate 
Angels within it. 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 


BRITAIN’S IDA. 


LovE is life’s end; an end but never ending; 

All joys, all sweets, all happiness awarding ; 
Love is life’s wealth (ne’er spent but ever spend- 

ing), 

Love’s life’s reward, rewarded in rewarding: 
Then from thy wretched heart fond care remove. 
Ah! shouldst thou live but once love’s sweets to 

prove, 
Thou wilt not love to live, unless thou live to love. 


EpmunpD. SPENSER. 


LOVE POEMS. a 


ROMEO AND JULIET. 


fom. — He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
JULIET appears above at a window. 


But soft! What light through yonder window breaks! 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief, 
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. 
Be not her maid, since she is envious; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. 
It is my lady; Oh! it is my love: 
Oh, that she knew she were! 
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? 
der eye discourses: I will answer it. 
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks. 
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
What if her eyes were there, they in her head? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so bright, 
That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! 
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek! 
Ful. Ay, me! 


10 LOVE POEMS, 


Rom. She speaks! 
Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, 
As is a wingéd messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Ful. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou 

Romeo? 

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: 
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 

Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? 

Ful. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy: 
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. 
What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, 
Nor arm, nor face — nor any other part 
Belonging toa man. Oh, be some other name! 
What’s ina name? That which we call a rose, 
By any other name would smell as sweet. 
So Romeo would, were-he not Romeo called, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes, 
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; 
And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
Take all myself ! 

Rom. 1 take thee at thy word: 
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized ; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

Ful. What man art thou, that thus, bescreened 

in night, 

So stumblest on my counsel? 


LOVE POEMS, 11 


Rom. By a name 
I know not how to tell thee who I am: 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee. 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 
Ful. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred 
words 
Of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? 
Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 
Ful. How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and 
wherefore? 
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 
Rom. With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch 
these walls, 
For stony limits cannot hold love out; 
And what love can do, that dares love attempt: 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 

Ful. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 
tom. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye 
Than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet, 

And I am proof against their enmity. 
Ful. 1 would not for the world they saw thee 
here. 
Rom. 1 have night’s cloak to hide me from their 
sight ; 
And but thou love me, let them find me here; 
My life were better ended by their hate, 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 


12 LOVE POEMS. 


Ful. By whose direction found’st thou out this 
place? 
Rom. By love, who first did prompt me to 
inquire ; 
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, 
I would adventure for such merchandise. 
Ful. Thou know’st the mask of night is on my 
“my iface, ; 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke — but farewell compliment! 
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say — Ay: 
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st, 
Thou may’st prove false: at lovers’ perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo! 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ; 
Or, if thou think’st I am too quickly won, 
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
So thou wilt woo: but, else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, 
And therefore thou may’st think my havior light; 
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware, 
My true love’s passion; therefore pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love, 
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 


LOVE POEMS. 13 


Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops — 
Ful. O swear not by the moon, the inconstant 
moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb: 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 
Rom. What shall I swear by? 
Ful. Do not swear at all; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 
And I'll believe thee. 
Rom. lf my heart’s dear love — 
Ful. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in 
thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night ; 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say —It lightens. Sweet, good-night! 
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good-night, good-night! — as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast! 
Rom. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? 
Ful. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? 
Rom. The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow 


_ for mine. 
Ful. 1 gave thee mine, before thou didst request 
it 


And yet I would it were to give again. 
Rom. Would’st thou withdraw it? for what pur- 
pose, love? 


14 LOVE POEMS. 


Ful. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
And yet I wish but for the thing I have: 
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
My love as deep; the more I give to thee, 
The more I have; for both are infinite. 
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu! 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 


TO) CEU: 


DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine ; 

Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
And [ll not ask for wine. 


The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, 
Doth ask a drink divine; 

But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, 
I would not change for thine. 


I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, 
Not so much honoring thee, 

As giving it a hope that there 
It could not withered be. 


But thou thereon didst only breathe 
And sent’st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 


Not of itself, but thee. 
BEN JONSON. 


LOVE POEMS. 15 


WHY SO WAN AND PALE? 


WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? 
Prithee, why so pale? 

Will, when looking well can’t move her, 
Looking ill prevail? , 
Prithee, why so pale? 


Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 
Prithee, why so mute? 

Will, when speaking well can’t win her, 
Saying nothing do’t? 
Prithee, why so mute? 


Quit, quit for shame; this will not move: 
This cannot take her; 

If of herself she will not love 
Nothing can make her; 
The devil take her. 


Sir JoHn Suck.ine. 
EK 


A MA FUTURE. 


WHERE waitest thou, 


Lady Iam to love? Thou comest not, 
Thou knowest of my sad and lonely lot — 


I looked for thee ere now. 


It is the May, 


And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother; 
Only we two seek fondly each the other, 


And, seeking, still delay. 


16 LOVE POEMS. 


Where art thou, sweet? 
I long for thee as thirsty lips for streams ; 
Oh, gentle promised angel of my dreams, 
Why do we never meet? 


Thou art as I — 
Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee: 
We cannot live apart — must meeting be 
Never before we die? 


Dear soul, not so! 
For time doth keep for us some happy years, 
And God hath portioned us our smiles and tears ; 
Thou knowest, and I know. 


Yes, we shall meet ; 
And therefore let our searching be the stronger; 
Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer, 
Nor doubt, ncr danger, sweet. 


Therefore I bear 
This winter-tide as bravely as I may, 
Patiently waiting for the bright spring day 
That cometh with thee, dear. 


Tis the May light 
That crimsons all the quiet college gloom; 
May it shine softly in thy sleeping-room — 
And so, dear wife, good-night!’ 


Epwin ARNOLD. 


LOVE POEMS. 17 


SERENADE. 


AH, sweet! thou little knowest how 
I wake, and passionate watches keep; 
And yet while I address thee now, 
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
*Tis sweet enough to make me weep 
That tender thought of love and thee, 
That while the world is hushed so deep 
Thy soul’s perhaps awake to me. 


Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep, 

With golden visions for thy dower, 
While I this midnight vigil keep, 

And bless thee in thy silent bower; 
To me ’tis sweeter than the power 

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, 
That I alone, at this still hour, 

In patient love outwatch the world. 


Tuomas Hoop. 
tO 


AE FOND KISS. 


AE fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae fareweel, alas! forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfw’ twinkle lights me; 

D>" Aespair around benights me. 


18 


LOVE POEMS, 


I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 


We had ne’er been broken-hearted. 


Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! 

Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 

Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae fareweel, alas! forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
RoBEerRT BuRNS. 


HIGHLAND MARY. 


YE banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o’ Montgomery, 

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie! 

There Simmer first unfauld your robes, 
And there the langest tarry ; 

For there I took the last fareweel 
O’ my sweet Highland Mary. 


LOVE POEMS. 


How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 
I clasped her to my bosom! 
The goiden hours, on angel wings, 
Flew o’er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 
Was my sweet Highland Mary. 


Wi’ monie a vow, and locked embrace, 
Our parting was fu’ tender ; 

And, pledging aft to meet again, 
We tore oursels asunder ; 

But oh! fell death’s untimely frost, 
That nipt my flower sae early! 

Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay 
That wraps my Highland Mary! 


O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
I aft ha’e kiss’d sae fondly! 

And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
That dwelt on me sae kindly! 

And mould’ring now in silent dust, 
That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 

But still within my bosom’s core 
Shall live my Highland Mary. 


Ly 


RoBERT Burns, 


20 LOVE POEMS. 


COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 


CoME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, 

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is 
still here ; 

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast, 

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 


Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same 

Through joy and through torment, through giory 
and shame? 

I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart, 

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 


Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, 

And thy Angel Ill be through the horrors of this, — 

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to 
pursue, 

And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there 


too! 
Tuomas Moore. 
ae i el 


“SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.” 


SHE was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment’s ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn, 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 


LOVE IFOEMS. 21 


A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 


I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature’s daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 


And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 

With something of an angel light. 


WILLIAM WoRDSWORTH, 





SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 


SHE walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
And all that’s best of dark and bright 


22 LOVE POLS, 


Meets in her aspect and her eyes: 
“Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 


One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half-impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o’er her face, 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place. 


And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent. 
Lore Byron. 


RUTH: 


SHE stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 

Who many a glowing kiss had won. 


On her cheek an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened, — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 


LOVE POEMS. 23 


Round her eyes her tresses fell ; 
Which were blackest none could tefl, 
But long lashes veiled a light, 

That had else been all too bright. 


And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks: 


Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 

Share my harvest and my home. 


Tuomas Hoop. 





WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 


WHEN we two parted 
In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted, 
To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
Colder thy kiss ; 

Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this. 


The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow — 
I felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 


24 


LOVE POLS. 


Thy vows are all broken, 
And light is thy fame ; 

I hear thy name spoken, 
And share in its shame. 


They name thee before me, 
A knell to mine ear, 
A shudder comes o’er me — 
Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 
Who knew thee too well: — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 
Too deeply to tell. 


In secret we met — 
In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 
Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 
After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 
In silence and tears. 
Lorp Byron. 


TO THE LADY HAMILTON. 


Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime; 
Unheeded flew the hours; 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 
That only treads on flowers! 


LO. & POEMS, 25 


What eye with clear account remarks 
The ebbing of the glass, 

When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
That dazzle as they pass! 


Oh, who to sober measurement 
Time’s happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage for his wings! 
Hon. WIttiAM ROBERT SPENCER, 


——~e—— 


ANGEL AND WOMAN. 


“ WHEN your beauty appears, 
In its graces and airs, 
All bright as an angel new-dropt from the skies, 
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 
So strangely you dazzle my eyes. 


“But when without art 
Your kind thoughts you impart, 
When your love runs in blushes through every vein, 
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants at 
your heart, — 
Then I know that you’re woman again.” 


“There’s a passion and pride 
In our sex,” she replied, 

“ And thus might I gratify both, I would do, — 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 


But still be a woman to you.” 
THOMAS PARNELL. 


26 


LOVE POLMS: 


IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 


THEY sin who tell us love can die, 
With life all other passions fly, 
All others are but vanity ; 
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; 
Earthly these passions of the earth, 
They perish where they have their birth ; 
But love is indestructible: 
Its holy flame forever burneth ; 
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
At times deceived, at times oppressed, 
It here is tried and purified, 
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest: 
It soweth here with toil and care, 
But the harvest-time of love is there. 


RoserT SOUTHEY. 


FROM “THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.” 


To heroism and holiness 

How hard it is for man to soar, 
But how much harder to be less 

Than what his mistress loves him for! 
He does with ease what do he must, 

Or lose her, and there’s nought debarr’d 
From him who’s call’d to meet her trust, 








i And credit her desired regard. 
; Ah, wasteful woman, she that may 
On her sweet self set her own price, 
Knowing he cannot choose but pay, 
How has she cheapen’d paradise ; 
How given for nought her priceless gift, 
How spoil’d the bread and spill’d the wine, 
Which, spent with due, respective thrift, 
Had made brutes men and men divine. 


O Queen! awake to thy renown, 
Require what ’tis our wealth to give, 
And comprehend and wear the crown 
Of thy despised prerogative! 
I who in manhood’s name at length 
With glad songs come to abdicate 
The gross regality of strength, 
Must yet in this thy praise abate, 
That through thine erring humbleness 
And disregard of thy degree, 
Mainly, has man been so much less 
Than fits his fellowship with thee. 
High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, 
The coward had grasp’d the hero’s sword, 
The vilest had been great, hadst thou, 
Just to thyself, been worth’s reward: 
But lofty honors, undersold, 
Seller and buyer both disgrace ; 
And favor that makes folly bold 
Puts out the light in virtue’s face. 


* * * a 7 a 


LOVE POEMS. 27 


28 


LOVE POEMS. 


Then to my room 

I went, and closed and lock’d the door, 
And cast myself down on my bed, 

And there, with many a blissful tear, 
I vow’d to love and pray’d to wed 

The Maiden who had grown so dear; 
Thank’d God who had set her in my path; 

And promised, as I hoped to win, 
I never would sully my faith 

By the least selfishness or sin ; 
Whatever in her sight I’d seem 

I'd really be; I’d never blend 
With my delight in her a dream 

’Twould change her cheek to comprehend ; 
And, if she wished it, I’d prefer 

Another’s to my own success ; 
And always seek the best for her 

With unofficious tenderness. 


Rising, I breathed a brighter clime, 

And found myself all self above, 
And, with a charity sublime, 

Contemned not those who did not love; 
And I could not but feel that then 

I shone with something of her grace, 
And went forth to my fellow men 

My commendation in my face. 

* * * * * * 

She was al] mildness; yet ’twas writ 

Upon her beauty legibly, . 
** He that’s for heaven itself unfit, 


LOVE POEMS. 29 


Let him not hope to merit me.” 
And such a challenge, quite apart 
From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus 
To sweet repentance moved my heart, 
And made me more magnanimous, 
And led me to review my life, 
Inquiring where in aught the least, 
If question were of her for wife, 
Ill might be mended, hope increased: 
Not that I soared so far above 
Myself, as this great hope to dare: 
And yet I half foresaw that love 
' Might hope where reason would despair. 


CovENTRY PATMORB 





mest), RED ROSE. 


On, my luve’s like a red, red rose, 
That’s newly sprung in June! 

Oh, my luve’s like the melodie 
That’s sweetly play’d in tune! 


As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
So deep in luve am I; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
Till a’ the seas gang dry. 


Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun, 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o’ life shall run, 


30 


LOVE POEMS. 


And fare thee weel, my only luve! 
And fare thee weel awhile! 
And I will come again, my luve, 


Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. 
RosBert Burns. 





DRAMA. 


HE stood beside me. 

The embodied vision of the brightest dream, 
Which like a dawn heralds the day of life ; 
The shadow of his presence made my world 
A paradise. All familiar things he touched, 
All common words he spoke, became to me 
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, 

As terrible and lovely as a tempest ; 


He came, and went, and left me what I an. 
Percy ByssHE SHELLEY 





THE INDIAN SERENADE. 


I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Hath led me — who knows how? 
To the chamber window, sweet! 


LOVE POZMS. 31 


The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 
The nightingale’s complaint 

It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 

Beloved as thou art! 


Oh, lift me from the grass! 
I die, I faint, I fail! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
My heart beats loud and fast : 
Oh! press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 


Percy ByssHE SHELLEW 





TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 


TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
That from the nunnery 

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
To war and arms I fly. 


True, a new mistress now I chase, 
The first foe in the field ; 

And with a stronger faith embrace, 
A sword, a horse, a shield. 


32 LOVE POEMS. 


Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you too shall adore; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much, 


Loved I not honor more. 
RICHARD LOVELACH. 


"TIS SWEET TOODHINE: 


*TIS sweet to think, that, where’er we may rove, 

We are sure to find something blissful and dear, 
And that, when we’re far from the lips we love, 

We’ve but to make love to the lips we are near. ° 
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, 

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. 
Then, oh! what pleasure, where’er we rove, 

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear. 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 


_’Twere a shame when flowers around us rise, 
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn’t there ; 
And the world’s so rich in resplendent eyes, 
*T were a pity to limit one’s love to a pair. 
Love’s wing and the peacock’s are nearly alike, 
They are both of them bright, but they’re change- 
able too, 
And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, 
It will tincture love’s plume with a different hue. 


LOVE POEMS. 33 


Then oh! what pleasure, where’er we rove, 
To be sure to find something still that is dear, 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 


We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 
Tuomas Moore, 
(te ge 


PaEVEVENING 'TIME: 


TOGETHER we walked in the evening time, 
Above us the sky spread golden and clear, 
And he bent his head and looked in my eyes, 
As if he held me of all most dear. 

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time! 


Grayer the light grew and grayer still, 
The rooks flitted home through the purple shade ; 
The nightingales sang where the thorns stood high, 
As I walked with him in the woodland glade. 

Oh! it was sweet in the evening time! 


And our pathway went through fields of wheat ; 

Narrow that path and rough the way, 

But he was near and the birds sang true, 

And the stars came out in the twilight gray. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time! 


Softly he spoke of the days long past, 
Softly of blesséd days to be ; 
Close to his arm and closer I prest, 
The cornfield path was Eden to me. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time! 


34 LOVE POEMS. 


And the latest gleams of daylight died ; 
My hand in his enfolded lay ; 
We swept the dew from the wheat as we passed, 
For narrower, narrower, wound the way. 
Oh! it was sweet in the evening time. 


He looked in the depths of my eyes, and said, 
“ Sorrow and gladness will come for us, sweet ; 
But together we'll walk through the fields of life 
Close as we walked through the fields of wheat.” 
A.C.C. 


LINES. 


LET other bards of angels sing, — 
Bright suns without a spot ; 

But thou art no such perfect thing ; 
Rejoice that thou art not! 


Heed not though none should call thee fair ; 
So, Mary, let it be, 

If naught in loveliness compare 
With what thou art to me. 


True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 
Whose veil is unremoved — 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
And the lover is beloved. 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


LOVE POEMS. 35 


EROS. 


THE sense of the world is short, — 
Long and various the report, — 
To love and be beloved; 
Men and gods have not outlearned it; 
And, how oft soe’er they’ve turned it, 
Tis not to be improved. 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 





THE DAY-DREAM. 
THE DEPARTURE. 


AND on her lover’s arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old: 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess followed him. 


“Td sleep another hundred years, 
O love, for such another kiss!” 
“Oh! wake forever, love,” she hears, 
“QO love! ‘twas such as this and this.” 
And o’er them many a sliding star, 
And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, streamed through many a golden bar, 
The twilight melted into morn. 


36 LOVE POEMS. 


“O eyes long laid in happy sleep!” 
“OQ happy sleep, that lightly fled!” 
“© happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!” 
“O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!” 
And o’er them many a flowing range 
Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark, 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 
The twilight died into the dark. 


“ A hundred summers! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where?” 
“O seek my father’s court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there!” 
And o’er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him. 


ALFRED TENNYSON, 
wy 


THE FLOWER O’ DUMBLANE., 


THE sun has gane down o’er the lofty Ben-Lomond, 
And left the red clouds to preside o’er the scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin’, 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o’ Dumblane. 
How sweet is the brier, wi’ its sauft fauldin’ blos- 
som! 
And sweet is the birk, wi’ its mantle o’ green: 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o’ Dumblane. 


LOVE POEMS. 37 


She’s modest as ony, and blithe as she’s bonny; 
For guileless simplicity makes her its ain; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha’d blight in its bloom the sweet flower o’ 
Dumblane. 
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e’en, 
ing ; 
Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o’ Dum- 
blane. 


How lost were my days till I met wi’ my Jessie! 
The sports o’ the city seemed foolish and vain; 

I ne’er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear lassie, 
Till charmed wi’ sweet Jessie, the flower 0’ Dum- 

blane. 

Though mine were the station of loftiest grandeur, 
Amidst its profusion I’d languish in pain, 

And reckon as naething the height o’ its splendor, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower 0’ Dumblane. 


RosBerT TANNAHILL. 


WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. 


WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee ; 

Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
As stars look on the sea! 


38 


LOVE POEMS. 


For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 
Are stillest when they shine. 

Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 
Beneath the heaven of thine. 


There is an hour when angels keep 
Familiar watch o’er men, 

When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep — 
Sweet spirit, meet me then! 

There is an hour when holy dreams 
Through slumber fairest glide, 

And in that mystic hour it seems 
Thou shouldst be at my side. 


My thoughts of thee too sacred are, 
For daylight’s common beam ; 

I can but know thee as my star, 
My angel, and my dream! 

When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee ; 

Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 


As stars look on the sea! 
EDWARD BULWER 


LOVE’S THREAD OF GOLD. 


IN the night she told a story, 

In the night and all night through, 
While the moon was in her glory, 

And the branches dropped with dew. 


LOVE POEMS. 39 


*T was my life she told, and round it 
Rose the years as from a deep; 

In the world’s great heart she found it, 
Cradled like a child asleep. 

In the night I saw her weaving 
By the misty moonbeam cold, 

All the weft her shuttle cleaving 
With a sacred thread of gold. 

Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow, 
Lulling tears so mystic sweet ; 

Then she wove my last to-morrow, 
And her web lay at my feet. 

Of my life she made the story: 
I must weep — so soon ’twas told! 

But your name did lend it glory, 
And your love its thread of gold! 


JEAN INGELOW, 


MILLAIS’S “ HUGUENOTS.” 


To H., playing one of Mendelssohn's ‘‘ Lieder ohne 
playing 
Worte.’’) 


Your favorite picture rises up before me, 
Whene’er you play that tune, 

I see two figures standing in a garden 
In the still August noon. 


One is a girl’s, with pleading face turned upward 
Wild with a great alarm; 


40 ~ LOVE POEMS. ‘ 
Trembling with haste she binds her ’broidered ’ker- 
chief, 
About the other’s arm, 


Whose face is bent on her with tender pity, 
Whose eyes look into hers, 

With a deep meaning, though she cannot read it, 
Hers are so dim with tears. 


What are they saying in the sunny garden, 
With summer flowers ablow? 
What gives the woman’s voice its passionate plead- 
ing? 
What makes the man’s so low? 


* See, love,” she murmurs, “ you shall wear my ’ker- © 
chief, 
It is the badge I know; 
And it shall bear you safely thro’ the conflict, 
If — if —indeed you go. 


«You will not wear it? will not wear my ’kerchief? 
Nay! do not tell me why! 

I will not listen! If you go without it, 
You will go hence to die. 


“Hush! do not answer! it is death, I tell you! 
Indeed I speak the truth; 

You standing there so warm with life and vigor, _ 
So bright with health and youth, 


LOVE POEMS. VAL 


“You would go hence out of the glowing sunshine, 
Out of the garden’s bloom, 

Out of the living, thinking, feeling present, 
Into the unknown gloom!” 


_ Then he makes answer, “ Hush, Oh! hush, my dar- 
ling! 
Life is so sweet to me, 
So full of hope, you need not bid me guard it, 
If such a thing might be! 


“If suchathing might be! But zo? thro’ falsehood ; 
I could not come to you, 

I dare not stand here in your pure, sweet presence, 
Knowing myself untrue.” 


“Tt is no sin!” the wild voice interrupts him, 
“This is no open strife ; 

Have you not often dreamt a nobler warfare, 
In which to spend your life? 


“Oh! for my sake, — though but for my sake wear it, 
Think what my life would be 

If you who gave it first true worth and meaning, 
Were taken now from me! 


“ Think of the long, long days so slowly passing! 
Think of the endless years! 

Iam so young! Must 1 live out my lifetime 
With neither hopes nor fears?” 


42 LOVE POEMS. 


He speaks again in mournful tones and tender, 
But with unswerving faith ; 

“ Should not love make us braver, aye, and stronger 
Either for life or death? 


“And life is hardest. Oh! my love! my treasure! 
If I could bear your part 

Of this great sorrow, I would go to meet it 
With an unshrinking heart. 


“Child! child! I little dreamt in that bright summer, 
When first your love I sought, 

Of all the future store of woe and anguish 
Which I, unknowing, wrought. 


* But you'll forgive me? yes, you will forgive me, 
I know, when I am dead. 
I would have loved you— but words have scant 
meaning — 
God love you now instead!” 


And there is silence in the sunny garden, 
Until with faltering tone, 

She sobs, the while still clinging closer to him, 
“Forgive me — go — my own!” 


So human love and faith by death unshaken, 
Mingle their glorious psalm ; 
Albeit low, until the passionate pleading 
Is hushed in deepest calm. 
London Spectator. 


LOVE POEMS. 43 


GOOD-NIGHT. “” 


“GOOD-NIGHT?” No, love! the night is ill 
Which severs those it should unite ; 

Let us remain together still, — 
Then it will be good night. 


How were the night without thee good, 
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? 

Be it not said, thought, understood, — 
Then it will be good night. 


The hearts that on each other beat 
From evening close to morning light 
Have nights as good as they are sweet, 
But never say “ Good-night.” 
Percy ByssHE SHELLEY. 


HEARTS. 


A TRINKET made like a heart, dear, 
Of red gold, bright and fine, 

Was given to me for a keepsake, 
Given to me for mine. 


And another heart, warm and tender, 
As true as a heart could be; 

And every throb that stirred it 
Was always and all for me. 


44 


LOVE POEMS. 


Sailing over the waters, 
Watching the far blue land, 

I dropped my golden heart, dear, 
Dropt it out of my hand ! 


It lies in the cold, blue waters, 
Fathoms and fathoms deep, 

The golden heart which I promised, 
Promised to prize and keep. 


Gazing at life’s bright visions, 
So false, and fair, and new, 

I forgot the other heart, dear, 
Forgot it and lost it too! 


I might seek that heart forever, 
I might seek and seek in vain, — 
And for one short, careless hour, 
I pay with a life of pain. 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 


RO 


A HEART FOR EVERY ONE. 


Ou, there’s a heart for every one, 
If every one could find it; 
Then up and seek, ere youth is gone, 
Whate’er the toil, ne’er mind it; 
For if you chance to meet at last 
With that one heart, intended 
To be a blessing unsurpassed, 
Till life itself is ended, 


LOVE POLMS. 45 


How would you prize the labor done, 
How grieve if you resigned it; 

For there’s a heart for every one, 
If every one could find it! 


Two hearts are made, the angels say, 
To suit each other dearly ; 

But each one takes a different way, — 
A way not found so clearly! 

Yet though we seek, and seek for years, 
The pains are worth the taking, 

For what the life of home endears 
Like hearts of angel’s making? 

Then haste, and guard the treasure now, 
When fondly you’ve enshrined it, 

For there’s a heart.for every one, 
If every one could find it. 

CHARLES SWAIN, 


WAITED TILL THE TWILIGHT. 


I WAITED till the twilight, 
And yet he did not come; 
I strayed along the brookside, 
And slowly wandered home; 
When who should come behind me, 
But him I would have chid; 
He said he came to find me — 
Do you really think he did? 


46 LOVE POEMS. 


He said since last we parted, 
He’d thought of naught so sweet, 
As of this very moment, — 
The moment we should meet. 
He showed me where, half-shaded, 
A cottage home lay hid; 
He said for me he’d made it — 
Do you really think he did? 


He said when first he saw me, 
Life seemed at once divine, 
Each night he dreamed of angels, 
And every face was mine; 
Sometimes, a voice in sleeping, 
Would all his hopes forbid ; 
And then he’d waken weeping — 
Do you really think he did? 


CHARLES SWAIN. 


REST. 


LovE, give me one of thy dear hands to hold, 
Take thou my tired head upon thy breast ; 
Then sing me that sweet song we loved of old, 
The dear, soft song about our little nest. 
We knew the song before the nest was ours ; 
We sang the song when first the nest we found; 
We loved the song in happy after-hours, 
When peace came to us, and content profound. 
Then sing that olden song to me to-night, 
While I, reclining on thy faithful breast, 


LOVE POEMS. 47 


See happy visions in the fair firelight, 

And my whole soul is satisfied with rest. 
Better than all our by-gone dreams of bliss, 
Are deep content and rest secure as this. 


What though we missed love’s golden summer-time, 
His autumn fruits were ripe when we had leave 
To enter joy’s wide vineyard in our prime, 
Good guerdon for our waiting to receive. 
Love gave us no frail pledge of summer flowers, 
But side by side we reaped the harvest-field ; 
Now side by side we pass the winter hours, 
And day by day new blessings are revealed. 
The heyday of our youth, its roseate glow, 
Its high desires and cravings manifold, 
The raptures and delights of long ago 
Have passed; but we have truer joys to hold. 
Sing me the dear old song about the nest, 
Our blessed home, our little ark of rest. 
Ali The Year Round 





/ 


TWIN STARS ALOFT. 


TwIN stars, aloft in ether clear, 
Around each other roll alway, 
Within one common atmosphere 
Of their own mutual light and day. 


And myriad happy eyes are bent 
Upon their changeless love alway ; 

As strengthened by their one intent, 
They pour the flood of life and day. 


48 LOVE POEMS. 


So we, through this world’s waning night, 
Shall, hand in hand, pursue our way ; 
Shed round us order, love, and light, 
And shine unto the perfect day. 
CHARLES KINGSLEY. 


LOVE TOOK ME SOFTLY BY THE HAND. 


LOVE took me softly by the hand, 
Love led me all the country o’er, 
And showed me beauty in the land, 
That I had never seen before — 
Never before — never before — 
O Love, sweet Love! 


There was a glory in the morn, 
There was a calmness in the night, 
A mildness in the south wind borne, 
That I have never felt aright, 
Never aright — never aright, — 
O Love, sweet Love! 


But now it cannot pass away — 
I feel it wheresoe’er I go, 
And in my heart by night and day 
Its gladness moveth to and fro; 
By night and day — by night and day— 
O Love, sweet Love! 
ANONYMOUS 


LOVE POEMS. 49 


SONG. 


I. 


Nay, but you who do not love her, 
Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 
Holds earth aught — speak truth — above her? 
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, 
And this last fairest tress of all, 
So fair, see, ere I let it fall? 


II. 


Because, you spend your lives in praising ; 
To praise, you search the wide world over; 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing, 
If earth holds aught — speak truth — above her? 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much. 
ROBERT BROWNING. 


SONG. 


WHEN sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 
My old sorrow wakes and cries, 

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north 
And a scarlet sun doth rise. 

Like a scarlet fleece the snowfield spreads, 
And the icy founts run free, 

And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 
And plunge, and sail in the sea. 


50 LOVE POEMS. 


O my lost love, and my own, own love, 
And my love that loved me so! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 
Where they listen for words from below? 
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 
I remember all that I said, 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more, 
Till the sea gives up her dead! 


Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 
To the Ice-fields and the snow; 

Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, 
And the end I could not know; 

How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 
Whom that day I held not dear? 

How could I know I should love thee away 
When I did not love thee anear? 


We shall walk no more through the sodden plain 
With the faded bents o’erspread ; 

We shall stand no more by the seething main 
While the dark wrack drives o’erhead ; 

We shall part no more in the wind and the rain, 
Where thy last farewell was said; 

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 
When the sea gives up her dead. 


JEAN INGELow 


LOVE POEMS. 51 


DESTINY. 


SOMEWHERE there waiteth in this world of ours 
For one lone soul another lonely soul, 

Each choosing each through all the weary hours, 
And meeting strangely at one sudden goal. 

Then blend they, like green leaves with golden 

flowers, 

Into one beautiful and perfect whole ; 

And life’s long night is ended, and the way 


Lies open onward to eternal day. , 
‘ EDWIN ARNOLD, 


LIGHT. 


THE night has a thousand eyes, 
And the day but one, 

Yet the light of the bright world dies 
With the dying sun. 


The mind has a thousand eyes, 
And the heart but one, 

Yet the light of a whole life dies 
When love is done. 


FRANcis W. BourDILLON, 


52 LOVE POEMS. 


CUPID’S ARROW. 


YounG Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, 
And besought him to look at his arrow, 

“°Tis useless!” he cried, “ You must mend it, I say, 
’Tisn’t fit to let fly at a sparrow. 

There’s something that’s wrong in the shaft, or the 

dart, 

For it flutters quite false to my aim, 

Tis an age since it fairly went home to a heart, 
And the world really jests at my name. 


“T have straightened, I’ve bent, I’ve tried all, I 
declare, 

I’ve perfumed it with sweetest of sighs ; 

Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, 
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; 

But it falls without touching — I'll break it, I vow, 
For there’s Hymen beginning to pout, 

He’s complaining his torch beams so dull and so low, 
That Zephyr might puff it right out.” 


Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, 
Till Vulcan the weapon restored ; 
“ There, take it, young sir, try it now. If it fail, 
I will ask neither fee nor reward!” 
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, 
The wounded and dead were untold, 
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, 


For the arrow was laden with gold. 
Exiza CooK: 


LOVE POEMS. 53 


TWO LOVERS. 


Two lovers by a moss-grown spring ; 
They leaned soft cheeks together there, 
Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 

And heard the wooing thrushes sing, 

O budding time! 
O love’s blest prime! 


’ Two wedded from the portal stept ; 
The bells made happy carolings, 
The air was soft as fanning wings, 

White petals on the pathway slept. 

O pure-eyed bride! 
O tender pride! 


Two faces o’er a cradle bent; 
Two hands above the head were locked ; 
These pressed each other while they rocked; 
Those watched a.life that love had sent. 
O solemn hour! 
O hidden power! 


Two parents by the evening fire ; 
The red light fell about their knees 
On heads that rose by slow degrees 

Like buds upon the lily-spire. 

O patient life! 
O tender strife! 


54 LOVE: POEMS. 


The two still sat together there, 
The red light shone about their knees ; 
But all the heads by slow degrees 
Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
O voyage fast! 
O vanished past! 


The red light shone upon the floor, 
And made the space between them wide; 
They drew their chairs up side by side, 
Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “‘ Once more!” 
O memories! 
O past that is! 
GrorGE ELiog. 


Oe 


THE LOW-BACKED CAR. 


WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy, 
*Twas on a market day: 

A low-backed car she drove, and sat 
Upon a truss of hay; 

But when that hay was blooming grass, 
And decked with flowers of spring, 
No flower was there that could compare 

With the blooming girl I sing. 
As she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 
Never asked for the toll, 
But just rubbed his owld poll, 
And looked after the low-backed car. 


LOVE POEMS. 


In battle’s wild commotion, 
The proud and mighty Mars 
With hostile scythes demands his tithes 
Of death, in warlike cars ; 
While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 
Has darts in her bright eye, 
That knock men down in the market town, 
As right and left they fly ; 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
Than battle more dangerous far ; — 
For the doctor’s art 
Cannot cure the heart, 
That is hit from that low-backed car. 


Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir, 
Has strings of ducks and geese, 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 
By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits, 
Just like a turtle-dove, 
Well worth the cage, I do engage, 
Of the blooming god of Love! 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
The lovers come near and far; 
And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin’, 
As she sits in her low-backed car. 
Oh! I'd rather own that car, sir, 
With Peggy by my side, 
Than a coach and four and gold galore, 
And a lady for my bride ; 


55 


56 LOVE POEMS. 


For a lady would sit forninst me, 
On a cushion made with taste, 
While Peggy would sit beside me, 
With my arm around her waist, — 
While we drove in the low-backed car, 
To be married by Father Mahar; 
Oh! my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh,— 


Though it beat in a low-backed car. 
SAMUEL LovVER 


—090-——_ 


COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 


CoME into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has flown, 
Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 


For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 


All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 

All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
To the dancers dancing in tune: 


LOVE POEMS. 57 


Tili a hush fell with the waking bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 


I said to the lily: “There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone? 
She is weary of dance and play.” 

Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
And half to the rising day ; 

Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 


I said to the rose: “The brief night goes, 
In babble and revel and wine. 

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
For one that will never be thine? 

But mine, but mine,” so I sware to the rose, 
“Forever and ever, mine.” 


And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 
As the music clashed in the hall ; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 
For I heard your rivulet fall 

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 
Our wood that is dearer than all. 


From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

_ In violets blue as your eyes, 


58 LOVE POEMS. 


To the woody hollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 


The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 
Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sighed for the dawn and thee. 


Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 


There has fallen a splendid tear 
From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, “ She is near, she is near”; 
And the white rose weeps, “ She is late” ; 
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear”; 
And the lily whispers, “I wait.” 


She is coming, my own, my sweet; 
Were it ever so airy a tread, 

My heart would hear her and beat, 
Were it earth in an earthy bed; 


LOVE POEMS. bs 


My dust would hear her and beat, 
Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 
And blossom in purple and red. 


ALFRED TENNYSON, 
Oe 


SONNETS. 


“ Era gia l’ora che volge il desio.” -—- DANTE. 
“Ricorro al tempo ch’io vi vidi prima,” — PETRARCA, 


I wisH I could remember that first day, 

First hour, first moment of your meeting me, 

If bright or dim the season, it might be 
Summer or Winter for aught I can say ; 

So unrecorded did it slip away, 

So blind was I to see and to foresee, 

So dull to mark the budding of my tree 
That would not blossom yet for many a May. 
If only I could recollect it, such 

A day of days! I let it come and go 

As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow; 

It seemed to mean so little, meant so much; 
.f only now I could recall that touch 
First touch of hand in hand — did one but know! 





*‘E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore.” — DANTE, 
“Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia."’ — PETRARCA, 


-f I could trust mine own self with your fate, 
Shall I not rather trust it in God’s hand? 
Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand, 


60 LOVE POEMS. 


Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date ; 
Who numbereth the innumerable sand, 
Who weighs the wind and water with a weight, 
To Whom the world is neither small nor great, 
Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we planned, 
Searching my heart for all that touches you, 
I find there only love and love’s goodwill 
Helpless to help and impotent to do, 
Of understanding dull, of sight most dim; 
And therefore I commend you back to Him 
Whose love your love’s capacity can fill 





“Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona.”’ — DANTE, 
“ Amor vien nel bel viso di costei.”” — PETRARCA, 


If there be any one can take my place 
And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve, 
Think not that I can grudge it, but believe 
I do commend you to that nobler grace, 
That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face ; 
Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive 
I too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave, 
And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace. 
For if I did not love you, it might be 
That I should grudge you some one dear deligh: ; 
But since the heart is yours that was mine own 
Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right, 
Your honorable freedom makes me free, 
And you companioned I am not alone. 
Curistina G. RossETT, 


LOVE POEMS. 61 


BECAUSE. 


It is not because your heart is mine — mine only —~ 
Mine alone; 

It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely, 
For your own ; 

Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies 
Spread above you 

Are more radiant for the shining of your eyes — 
That I love you! 


It is not because the world’s perplexed meaning 
Grows more clear ; 

And the Parapets of Heaven, with angels leaning, 
Seem more near ; 

And Nature sings of praise with all her voices 
Since yours spoke, 

Since within my silent heart, that now rejoices, 
Love awoke! 


Way, not even because your hand holds heart and 
life ; 

At your will 

Soothing, hushing all its discord, making strife 
Calm and still; 

Teaching Trust to fold her wings, nor ever roam 
From her nest; 

Teaching Love that her securest, safest home 
Must be Rest. 


62 LOVE POEMS. 


But because this human Love, though true and 
sweet — 

Yours and mine — 

Has been sent by Love more tender, more comple‘, 
More divine ; 

That it leads our hearts to rest at last in Heaven, 
Far above you; 

Do I take you as a gift that God has given — 
And I love you! 


ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


KO 


THE BANKS OF DOON. 


YE banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! 
Thow'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons through the flowering thern. 
Thou ’minds me o’ departed joys, 
Departed — never to return! 


Aft ha’e I roved by bonnie Doon, 
To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve, 
And fondly sae did I 0’ mine. 
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 
Fw’ sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 


But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me. 
Rossrt Burns. 


LOVE POEMS. 03 


I LOVE MY JEAN. 


O’ A’ the airts the wind can blaw, 
I dearly lo’e the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
The lass that I lo’e best: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
W? mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever wi’ my Jean. 


I see her in the dewy flowers, 
Sae lovely sweet and fair: 
I hear her voice in ilka bird, 
W? music charm the air: 
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs 
By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, 
But minds me o’ my Jean. 
RoBERT Burns. 


OG ee 


A VALEDICTION. 


Gop be with thee, my beloved — God be with theet 
Else alone thou goest forth, 
Thy face unto the north, 
Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath 
thee, 
Looking equal in one snow ; 
While I who try to reach thee, 
Vainly follow, vainly follow. 


64 LOVE POEMS. 


With the farewell and the hollo, 
And cannot reach thee so. 
Alas, I can but teach thee! 
God be with thee, my beloved — God be with thee. 


Can I teach thee, my beloved — can I teach thee? 
If I said, “Go left or right,” 
The counsel would be light. 
The wisdom, poor of all that could enrich thee, 
My right would show like left ; 
My raising would depress thee, 
My choice of light would blind thee, 
Of way, would leave behind thee, 
Of end, would leave bereft. 
Alas, I can but bless thee! 
May God teach thee, my beloved — may God teach 
thee! 


Can I bless thee, my beloved — can I bless thee? 
What blessing word can I 
From mine own tears keep dry? 
What flowers grow in my field wherewith to dress 
thee? 
My good reverts to ill; 
My calmnesses would move thee, 
My softnesses would prick thee, 
My bindings up would break thee, 
My crownings, curse and kill. 
Alas, I can but love thee! 
May God bless thee, my beloved —may God bless 
thee. 


LOVE POEMS. 65 


Can I love thee, my beloved — can I love thee? 
And is this like love to stand 
With no help in my hand, 
When strong as death I fain would watch above 
thee? 
My love-kiss can deny 
No tear that falls beneath it ; 
Mine oath of love can swear thee 
From no ill that comes near thee — - 
And thou diest while I breathe it. 
And I—I can but die! 
May God love thee, my beloved— may God love 
thee. 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


RR 


f 


A CHAIN. 


THE bond that links our souls together ; 
Will it last through stormy weather? 

Will it moulder and decay 

As the long hours pass away? 

Will it stretch if Fate divide us, 

When dark and weary hours have tried us? 
O, if it look too poor and slight, 

Let us break the links to-night! 


It was not forged by mortal hands, 

Or clasped with golden bars and bands; 
Save thine and mine, no other eyes . 
The slender link can recognize: 


LOVE POEMS. 


In the bright light it seems to fade — 

And it is hidden in the shade; 

While Heaven nor Earth have never heard, 
Or solemn vow, or blighted word. 


Yet what no mortal hand could make 
No mortal power can ever break ; 
What words or vows could never do, 
No words or vows can make untrue; 
And if to other hearts unknown 

The dearer and the more our own, 
Because too sacred and divine 

For other eyes, save thine and mine. 


And see, though slender, it is made 
Of Love and Trust, and can they fade? 
While, if too slight it seem, to bear 
The breathings of the summer air, 

We know that it could bear the weight 
Of a most heavy heart of late, 

And as each day an hour flew 

The stronger for its burden grew. 


And, too, we know and feel again 

It has been sanctified by pain, 

For what God deigns to try with sorrow 
He means not to decay to-morrow ; 

But through that fiery trial at last 
When earthly ties and bonds are past; 
What slighter things dare not endure 
Will make our Love more safe and pure, 


LOVE POEMS. 67 


Love shall be purified by Pain, 

And Pain be soothed by Love again: 
So let us now take heart and go 
Cheerfully on, through joy and woe; 

No change the summer sun can bring, 
Or the inconstant skies of spring, 

Or the bleak winter’s stormy weather, 
For we shall meet them, Love, together! 


ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
Oe 


LOVE WAKES AND WEEPS. 


LOVE wakes and weeps 
While Beauty sleeps ; 

Oh! for music’s softest numbers 
To prompt a theme 
For Beauty’s dream, 

Soft as the pillow of her slumbers! 


Through groves of palm 
Sigh gales of balm ; 

Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; 
While through the gloom 
Comes soft perfume, 

The distant beds of flowers revealing. 


Oh! wake and live! 
No dreams can give 
A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; 
No longer sleep — 
From lattice peep, 
And list the tale that love is telling! 
Str WALTER ScoTT 


LOVE POEMS. 


IN THREE DAYS. 


So I shall see her in three days 

And just one night, but nights are short; 
Then two long hours, and that is morn. 
See how I come, unchanged, unworn! 
Feel where my life broke off from thine 
How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — 
Only a touch and we combine! 


Too long, this time of year, the days, 
But nights, at least, the nights are short. 
As night shows where her one moon is, 
A hand’s breadth of pure light and bliss, 
So life’s night gives my lady birth 

And my eyes hold her! What is worth 
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth? 


O loaded curls, release your store 

Of warmth and scent, as once before 

The tingling hair did, lights and darks 
Out breaking into fairy sparks, 

When under curl and curl I pried 

After the warmth and scent inside. 
Through lights and darks how manifold — 
The dark inspired, the light controlled! 
As early Art embrowns the gold. 


What great fear, should one say, “ Three days 
That change the world might change as well 
Your fortune ; and if joy delays, 

Be happy that no worse befell!” 


LOVE POEMS. 69 


What small fear, if another says, 

“ Three days and one short night beside 
May throw no shadow on your ways. 

But years must turn with change untried, 
With chance not easily defied, 

With an end somewhere undescried.’’ 
No fear! — or if a fear be born 

This minute, it dies out in scorn. 

Fear? I shall see her in three days 

And one night, now the nights are short, 
Then just two hours and that is morn. 


ROBERT BROWNING, 


THE BONNIE WEE THING. 


BONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 


Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face of thine, 

And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 


Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty 
In ae constellation shine ; 

To adore thee is my duty, 
Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine! 


70 


LOVE “POE, 


Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 


Lest my jewel I should tine. 
RoBERT Burns, 





ANNIE LAURIE. 


MAXWELTON braes are bonnie 
Where early fa’s the dew, 

And it’s there that Annie Laurie 
Gie’d me her promise true, — 
Gie’d me her promise true, 
Which ne’er forgot will be, 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 


Her brow is like the snaw drift ; 
Her throat is like the swan; 
Her face it is the fairest 
That e’er the sun shone on, — 
That e’er the sun shone on, 
And dark blue is her ee; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 


Like dew on the gowan lying 
Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet ; 

And like the winds in summer sighing 
Her voice is low and sweet, — 

Her voice is low and sweet ; 


LOVE POEMS. 71 


And she’s a’ the world to me; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 


DouGLas OF FINLAND. 


PLL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. 


My dear and only love, I pray 
That little world of thee, 

Be governed by no other sway 
Than purest monarchy : 

For if confusion have a part, 
Which virtuous souls abhor, 

And hold a synod in thy heart, 
I'll never love thee more. 


As Alexander I will reign, 
And I will reign alone; 

My thoughts did evermore disdain 
A rival on my throne. 

He either fears his fate too much, 
Or his deserts are small, 

Who dares not put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all. 


But I will reign and govern still, 
And always give the law, 

And have each subject at my will, 
And all to stand in awe; 


72 


LOVE POEMS. 


But ‘gainst my batteries if I find 
Thou storm, or vex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 
I’ll never love thee more. 


And in the empire of thy heart, 
Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 
Or dare to share with me, — 
Or committees if thou erect, 
Or go on such a score, 
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, 
And never love thee more. 


But if no faithless action stain 
Thy love and constant word, 
Ill make thee famous by my pen, 
And glorious by my sword ; 
I’ll serve thee in such noble ways 
As ne’er was known before, 
Ill deck and crown thy head with bays, 
And love thee more and more. 


James GRAHAM, Marguts of Montrose 


or 


ROSALIND’S MADRIGAL. 


LOVE in my bosom, like a bee, 
Doth suck his sweet ; 

Now with his wings he plays with me, 
Now with his feet. 


LOVE POEMS. 73 


Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest: 

Ah, wanton, will ye? 


And if I sleep, then percheth he 
With pretty flight, 

And makes his pillow of my knee, 
The livelong night. 

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 

He music plays if so I sing; 

He lends me every lovely thing, 

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: 
Whist, wanton, still ye. 


Else I with roses every day 
Will whip you hence, 
And blind you when you long to play, 
For your offence ; 
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in; 
I'll make you fast it for your sin; 
I'll count your power not worth a pin; 
Alas! what hereby shall I win, 
If he gainsay me? 


What if I beat the wanton boy 
With many a rod? 

He will repay me with annoy, 
Because a god. 

Then sit thou safely on my knee. 


74 LOVE POEMS. 


And let thy bower my bosom be; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, 
O Cupid! so thou pity me, 
Spare not, but play thee. 
Tuomas LopGE. 


SONG. 


PACK clouds away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount lark, aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark, Ill borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing! Nightingale, sing! 
To give my love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I’ll borrow. 


Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 

And from each bill let music shrill 
Give my fair love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 
Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 
Sing, birds, in every furrow. 


Tuomas Heywoop. 


LOVE POEMS. 75 


SONG. 


ASK me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your beauties, orient deep, 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 


Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 

For in pure love heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 


Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 

She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
* * * * * * 
Ask me no more if east or west 

The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 


And in your fragrant bosom dies! 
Tuomas CAREW, 





THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 


LOVE. 


CoME live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That hill and valley, grove and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 


76 


LOVE POEMS. 


And we will sit upon the rocks, 

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 

By shallow rivers, to whose falls 

Melodious birds sing madrigals. bd 


And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 


A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Fair-linéd slippers for the cold, 

With buckles of the purest gold. 


A belt of straw and ivy buds, 

With coral clasps and amber studs; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my love. 


The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
For thy delight each May-morning. 

If these delights thy mind may move, 
Come live with me and be my love. 


CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 





MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH. 


MOVE eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow; 
From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go; 


LOVE POEMS. 77 


Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 
That watch me from the glen below. 
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 
And move me to my marriage-morn, 
And round again to happy night. 
ALFRED TENNYSON, 


SERENADE. 


Now the toils of day are over, 

And the sun hath sunk to rest, 
Seeking, like a fiery lover, 

The bosom of the blushing west — 


The faithful night keeps watch and ward, 
Raising the moon her silver shield, 
And summoning the stars to guard 
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde! 


The faithful night! Now all things lie 
Hid by her mantle dark and dim, 

In pious hope I hither hie, 
And humbly chant mine evening hymn. 


Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine! 
(For never holy pilgrim kneel’d 
Or wept at feet more pure than thine), 
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde! 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


78 LOVE POEMS. 


MY STAR. 


ALL that I know 
Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 
(Like an angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, 
Now a dart of blue, 
Till my friends have said 
They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue! 
Then it stops likea bird; like a flower, hangs furled ; 
They must solace themselves with the Saturn 
above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a world? 
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I 


love it. 
RoBERT BROWNING.- 


WHEN THOU ART NEAR ME. 


WHEN thou art near me, 
Sorrow seems to fly, 
And then I think, as well I may, 
That on this earth there is no one 
More blest than I. 


But when thou leav’st me, 
Doubts and fears arise, 
And darkness reigns, 
Where all before was light. 


LOVE POEMS. 79 


The sunshine of my soul 
Is in those eyes, 

And when they leave me 
All the world is night. 


But when thou art near me, 
Sorrow seems to fly, 
And then I feel, as well I may, 
That on this earth there dwells not one 
So blest as I. 
Lapy Joun Scott, 


RG 


ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY. 


ONE morning, oh! so early, my belovéd, my be- 
loved, 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 
would cease ; 
*Twas a thrush sang in my garden, “ Hear the story, 
hear the story!” 
And the lark sang, “ Give us glory!” 
And the dove said, “ Give us peace!” 


Then I listened, oh! so early, my belovéd, my be- 
lovéd, 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my 
dear, the dove; 
When the nightingale came after, “ Give us fame to 
sweeten duty!” 
When the wren sang, “Give us beauty!” 
She made answer, “ Give us love!” 


80 LOVE POEMS. 


Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my be- 
lovéd, my beloved ; 
Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon 
the year’s increase, 
And my prayer goes up, “Oh, give us, crowned in 
youth with marriage glory, 
Give for all our life’s dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace!” 


Jzan INGELOW 
EKO 


BEFORE THE DAYBREAK. 


BEFORE the daybreak shines a star 

That in the day’s great glory fades; 
Too fiercely bright is the full light 

That her pale-gleaming lamp upbraids. 


Before the daybreak sings a bird 

That stills her song ere morning light: 
Too loud for her is the day’s stir, 

The woodland’s thousand-tongued delight. 


Ah! great the honor is, to shine 
A light wherein no traveller errs ; 
And rich the prize to rank divine 
Among the world’s loud choristers. 


But I would be that paler star, 
And I would be that lonelier bird, 
To shine with hope, while hope’s afar, 
And sing of love, when love’s unheard. 
FRANCIS W. BouRDILLON 


LOVE POEMS. $1 


A WARNING. 


PLACE your hands in mine; dear, 
With their rose-leaf touch: 

If you heed my warning, 
It will spare you much. 


Ah! with just such smiling 
Unbelieving eyes, 

Years ago I heard it : — 
You shall be more wise. 


You have one great treasure, 
Joy for all your life ; 

Do not let it perish 
In one reckless strife. 


Do not venture all, child, 
In one frail, weak heart ; 

So, through any shipwreck, 
You may save a part. 


Where your soul is tempted 
Most to trust your fate, 
There, with double caution, 
Linger, fear, and wait. 


Measure all you give, still 
Counting what you take; 

Love for love, so placing 
Each an equal stake. 


$2 


LOVE POEMS. 


Treasure love; though ready 
Still to live without. 

In your fondest trust, keep 
Just one thread of doubt. 


Build on no to-morrow ; 
Love has but to-day: 

If the links seem slackening, 
Cut the bond away. 


Trust no prayer nor promise ; 
Words are grains of sand: 
To keep your heart unbroken, 

Hold it in your hand. 


That your love may finish 
Calm as it begun, 

Learn this lesson better, 
Dear, than I have done. 


Years hence, perhaps, this warning 
You shall give again, 

In just the self-same words, dear, 
And — just as much — in vain. 


ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
+4 


TO MARY. 


I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd, 
The lightest of all ; 

My laughter rings cheery and loud 
In banquet and ball. 


LOVE POEMS. 83 


My lip hath its smiles and its sneers, 
For all men to see; 

But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, 
Are for thee, are for thee! 


Around me they flatter and fawn — 
The young and the old, 

The fairest are ready to pawn 
Their hearts for my gold. 

They sue me —I laugh as I spurn 
The slaves at my knee; 

But in faith and in fondness I turn 


Unto thee, unto thee! 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY: 


een On aaa 


THE INVITATION. 


BEsT and Brightest, come away, 
Fairer far than this fair day, 

Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 

In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring, 
Through the winter wandering, 
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 
To hoar February born; 

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kissed the forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 

And bade the frozen streams be free, 


384 


LOVE POEMS. 


And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strewed flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 

Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear, 


Away, away, from men and towns, 
To the wild wood and the downs, — 
‘To the silent wilderness, 

Where the soul need not repress 

Its music, lest it should not find 

An echo in another’s mind, 

While the touch of Nature’s art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 


Radiant Sister of the Day, 

Awake! arise! and come away! 

To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, — 
Round stems that never kiss the sun, — 
Where the lawns and pastures be, 
And the sandhills of the sea, 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 

And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
‘Crown the pale year weak and new; 


LOVE POEMS. 85 


When the night is left behind 

In the deep east, dim and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 

Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one 


In the universal Sun. 
Percy ByssHE SHELLEY. 





THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. 


IT is the miller’s daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 
That trembles at her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I touch her neck so warm and white. 


And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty dainty waist, 
And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest. 
And I should know if it beat right, 
I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 


And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 
Upon her balmy bosom, 
With her laughter cr her sighs, 
And I would lie so light, so light, 
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night. 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 


86 LOVE POEMS. 


A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE. 


I. 


A VOICE by the cedar tree, 

In the meadow under the Hall! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet’s call! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 


II. 


Maud with her exquisite face, 

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 

And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and 
jean, 

And myself so languid and base. 


III. 
Silence, beautiful voice! 
Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 


LOVE POEMS. 87 


Still! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 


Not her, not her, but a voice. 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 





DIVIDED. 


Ts 


AN empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together, 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 


Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 


Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

*Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 


We two walk till the purple dieth 
And short dry grass under foot is brown, 
But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 


88 LOVE POEMS. 


II. 


Over the grass we stepped unto it, 

And God He knoweth how blithe we were! 
Never a voice to bid us eschew it: 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! 


Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen; 
Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 


Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 
Light was our talk as of faéry bells — 

Faéry wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 


Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring: 
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 

And said, “ Let us follow it westering.” 


III. 


A dapple sky, a world of meadows, 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 
Forward, backward; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 


Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 

As hair from a maid’s bright eyes blown back; 
And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 


LOvE POEMS. 89 


Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather 
Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
On either brink we go hand in hand. 


The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 
On either margin, our songs all done, 

We move apart, while she singeth ever, 
Taking the course of the stooping sun. 


He prays, “ Come over” —I may not follow; 
I cry, “ Return’ — but he cannot come: 

We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 


IV. 


A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talking of outward things: 

The careless beck is a merry dancer, 
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 


A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 
“Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell ”: 

“JT may not cross” — and the voice beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 


No backward path; ah! no returning ; 
No second crossing that ripple’s flow: 
“Come to me now, for the west is burning ; 
Come ere it darkens ;” —‘“ Ah, no! ah, no!” 


90 LOVE POEMS. 


Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching — 

The beck grows wider and swift and deep: 
Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them; we walk, and weep. 


V. 


A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed, 
Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 


The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 
Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; 

The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 
And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 


We two walk on in our grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 
With the moon’s own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 


VI. 


A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 
A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 
A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 


Bare glassy slopes, where kids are tethered ; 
Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 


LOY 6 POLMS. eB 


A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; 
A flashing edge for the milk-white river, 

The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 


Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 
Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And ’plaineth of love’s disloyalties. 


Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
But two are walking apart forever, 
And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 


VII. 


A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 
The river hasteth, her banks recede: 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 
Bear down the lily and drown the reed. 


Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air), 
And level sands for banks endowing 
The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 


While, O my heart! as white sails shiver 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, 
How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 

That moving speck on the far-off side! 


92 LOVE POEMS. 


Farther, farther —I see it — know it — 
My eyes brim over, it melts away: 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 


Vill. 


And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 
And knowledge greater than grief can dim — 
I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea, better —e’en better than I love him. 


And as I walk by the vast calm river, 
The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, “ Thy breadth and thy depth forever 
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.” 
JEAN INGELOw. 


A BIRD-SONG. 


It’s a year almost that I have not seen her; 
Oh! last summer, green things were greener, 
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer. 


It’s well-nigh summer, for there’s a swallow ; 
Come one swallow, his mate will follow, 
The bird-race quicken and wheel and thicken. 


O happy swallow, whose mate will follow 

O’er height, o’er hollow! Id be a swallow 

To build, this weather, our nest together. 
CurisTINA G. RossETts. 


LOVE POEMS. 93 


WHEN I think on the happy days 

I spent wi’ you, my dearie, 
And now what lands between us lie, 
' How can I but be eerie! 


How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
As ye were wae and weary! 
it was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi’ my dearie. 
ANONYMOUS. 





TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 


WHEN Love, with unconfinéd wings, 
Hovers within my gates, 

And my divine Althea brings 
To whisper at the grates ; 

When I lie tangled in her hair, 
And fetter’d to her eye, 

The birds that wanton in the air 
Know no such liberty. 


* * * * * 


Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage: 

Minds innocent and quiet take 
That for a hermitage: 

If I have freedom in my love, 
And in my soul am free, 

Angels alone, that soar above, 
Enjoy such liberty.. 


RICHARD LOVELACE. 


a LOVE” POEMS: 


SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS. 


ASK me no more: the moon may draw the sea; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the 
shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape: 
But O too fond, when have J answer’d thee? 
Ask me no more. 


Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 


Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain: 
Let the great river take me to the main: 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 

Ask me no more. 





As thro’ the land at eve we went, 

And pluck’d the ripen’d ears, 

We fell out, my wife and I, 

O we fell out I know not why, 
And kiss’d again with tears. 


And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 

When we fall out with those we love 
And kiss again with tears! 


LOVE POEMS. 95 


For when we came where lies the child 
We lost in other years, 

There above the little grave, 

O there above the little grave, 
We kiss’d again with tears. 





“QO Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 


“O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 


‘“¢O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 


“OQ were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 


“ Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with 
love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 


“O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 


96 LOVE POEMS. 


“O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 


“QO Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her 
mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.” 


ALFRED TENNYSOX, 


SONG OF THE VIOLET. 


A HUMBLE flower long time I pined 
Upon the solitary plain, 
And trembled at the angry wind, 
And shrunk before the bitter rain. 
And oh! ’twas in a blessed hour 
A passing wanderer chanced to see, 
And, pitying the lonely flower, 
To stoop and gather me. 


I fear no more the tempest rude, 

On dreary heath no more I pine, 
But left my cheerless solitude, 

To deck the breast of Caroline. 
Alas! our days are brief at best, 

Nor long, I fear, will mine endure, 
Though sheltered here upon a breast 

So gentle and so pure. 


LOVE POEMS. 97 


It draws the fragrance from my leaves, 
It robs me of my sweetest breath, 
And every time it falls and heaves, 
It warns me of my coming death. 
But one I know would glad forego 
All joys of life to be as 1; 
An hour to rest on that sweet breast, 
And then, contented, die. 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 


——~?onr——— 


LOVE IN A LIFE. 


Room after room, 

I hunt the house through 

We inhabit together. 

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her, 

Next time, herself ! — not the trouble behind her 

Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume! 

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed 
anew, — 

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her 
feather. 


Yet the day wears, 

And door succeeds door ; 

I try the fresh fortune, — 

Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. 
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. 
Spend my whole day in the quest, — who cares? 
But ‘tis twilight, you see, — with such suits to explore, 
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune! 


RoBERT BROWNING, 


98 LOVE POEMS. 


LOVE: 


LovE is not made of kisses, or of sighs, 
Of clinging hands, or of the sorceries 
And subtle witchcrafts of alluring eyes. 


Love is not made of broken whispers; no! 
Nor of the blushing cheek, whose answering glow 
Tells that the ear has heard the accents low. 


Love is not made of tears, nor yet of smiles, 
Of quivering lips, or of enticing wiles: 
Love is not tempted; he himself beguiles. 


This is Love’s language, but this is not Love. 


Uf we know aught of Love, how shall we dare 
To say that this is Love, when well aware 
‘Lhat these are common things, and Love is rare? 


As separate streams may, blending, ever roll 
Jn course united, so, of soul to soul, 
Love is the union into one sweet whole. 


As molten metals mingle; as a chord 
Swells sweet in harmony; when Love is Lord, 
1wo hearts are one, as letters form a word. 


One heart, one mind, one soul, and one desire, 
A kindred fancy, and a sister fire 
Of thought and passion; these can Love inspire. 


this makes a heaven of earth; for this is Love. 


Chambers’ Fournai 


LOVE POEMS. 99 


LIFE IN A LOVE. 
ESCAPE me? 
Never — 
Beloved! 
While Iam I, and you are you, 
So long as the world contains us both, 
Me the loving and you the loth, 
While the one eludes, must the other pursue. 
My life is a fault at last, I fear: 
It seems too much like a fate, indeed! 
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 
But what if I fail of my purpose here? 
It is but to keep the nerves at strain, 
To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, 
And baffled, get up and begin again, — 
So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all. 
While, look but once from your farthest bound 
At me so deep in the dust and dark, 
No sooner the old hope goes to ground 
Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark, 
I shape me — 
Ever 


Removed! Rosert BRowNinG, 
Oe 


NOT OURS THE VOWS. 


NOT ours the vows of such as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
To walk on flowers together. 


100 LOVE POEMS. 


But we have loved as those who tread 
The thorny path of sorrow, 

With clouds above, and cause to dread 
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 


That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer, 

And rendered us, by sorrow’s ties, 
Each to the other dearer. 


Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 


It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
And through death’s shadowy portal, 
Made by adversity sublime, 
By faith and hope immortal. 
BERNARD BARTON 


ee or 


FOR THE FUTURE: 


I WONDER did you ever count 
The value of one human fate; 
Or sum the infinite amount 
Of one heart’s treasures, and the weight 
Of Life’s one venture, and the whole concentrate 
purpose of a soul. 


LOVE: POEMS; 101 


And if you ever paused to think 

That all this in your hands I laid 
Without a fear : — did you not shrink 
From such a burden? half afraid, 


Half-wishing that you could divide the risk, or cast 
it all aside. 


While Love has daily perils, such 

As none foresee and none control ; 

And hearts are strung so that one touch, 
Careless or rough, may jar the whole, 


You well might feel afraid to reign with absolute 
power of joy and pain. 


You well might fear —if Love’s sole claim 
Were to be happy; but true Love 

Takes joy as solace, not as aim, 

And looks beyond and looks above ; 


And sometimes through the bitterest strife first 
learns to live her highest life. 


Earth forges joy into a chain 

Till fettered Love forgets its strength, 
Its purpose, and its end ; — but Pain 
Restores its heritage at length, 


And bids Love rise again and be eternal, mighty, 
pure, and free. 


If then your future life should need 
A strength my Love can only gain 
Through suffering, or my heart be freed 


102 LOVE POEMS. 


Only by sorrow from some stain, 
Then you shall give, and I will take, this Crown of 


fire for Love’s dear sake. 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 


COMFORT. 


Ir there should come a time, as well there may, 
When sudden tribulation smites thine heart, 
And thou dost come to me for help, and stay, 
And comfort — how shall I perform my part? 
How shall I make my heart a resting-place, 
A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite? 
How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face, 
And dry thy tears in bitter woe’s despite? 
How shall I win the strength to keep my voice 
Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs? 
How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice, 
Nor mar the counsel by mine own heart-throbs? 
Love, my love teaches me a certain way, 
So, if thy dark hour come, I am thy stay. 
I must live higher, nearer to the reach 
Of angels in their blessed trustfulness, 
Learn their unselfishness, ere I can teach 
Content to thee whom I would greatly bless. 
Ah me! what woe were mine if thou shouldst come, 
Troubled, but trusting, unto me for aid, 
And I should meet thee powerless and dumb, 
Willing to help thee, but confused, afraid! 


LOVE POEMS, 103 


It shall not happen thus, for I will rise, 

God helping me, to higher life, and gain 
Courage and strength to give thee counsel wise, 
And deeper love to bless thee in thy pain. 

Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be 


The dearest bond between my heart and thee. 
Ali the Year Round, 


SEVEN TIMES THREE. LOVE. 


I LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; 
“Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 

lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, 
wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late! 


“The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
see? 
Let the star-clusters grow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 


104 LOVE POEMS, 


“You night moths that hover where honey brims 
over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 


“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, 
I’ve conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.” 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover, 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight ; 
But Ill love him more, more 
Than e’er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 


JEAN INGELow. 


OE 


THE VIOLET, 


THE violet in her green-wood bower, 

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, 
May boast itself the fairest flower 

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 


Though fair her gems of azure hue, 

Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining ; 
I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue, 

More sweet through watery lustre shining. 


LOVE POEMS. 105 


‘The summer sun that dew shall dry, 
Ere yet the day be passed its morrow; 
No longer in my false love’s eye 
Remained the tear of parting sorrow. 


Sir WALTER Scorr. 





SONG. 


In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers: 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 


It is the little rift within the lute 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 


The little rift within the lover’s lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 


It is not worth the keeping: let it go: 
But shall it? answer, darling; answer, no. 
And trust me not at all, or all in all. 


ALFRED ‘TENNYSON, 


ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
I 


ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves, 
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
And strew them where Pauline may pass. 


106 


LOVE POEMS. 


She will not turn aside? Alas! 
Let them lie. -Suppose they die? 
The chance was they might take her eye. 


II. 


How many a month I strove to suit 
These stubborn fingers to the lute! 
To-day I venture all I know. 

She will not hear my music? So! 
Break the string; fold music’s wing: 
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! 


105 


My whole life long I learned to love. 
This hour my utmost art I prove 

And speak my passion — heaven or hell? 
She will not give me heaven? ’Tis well! 
Lose who may —I still can say, 

Those who win heaven, blest are they! 


ROBERT BROWNING. 


SWITZERLAND. 
I. MEETING. 


AGAIN I see my bliss at hand, 
The town, the lake, are here; 

My Marguerite smiles upon the strand, 
Unaltered with the year. 


LOVE POEMS. 107 


I know that graceful figure fair, 
That cheek of languid hue; 

I know that soft, enkerchiefed hair, 
And those sweet eyes of blue. 


Again I spring to make my choice; 
Again in tones of ire 

J hear a God’s tremendous voice, — 
“ Be counselled, and retire.” 


Ye guiding Powers who join and part, 
What would ye have with me? 

Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, 
And let the peaceful be! 


II. PARTING. 


Ye storm-winds of autumn! 

Who rush by, who shake 

The window, and ruffle 

The gleam-lighted lake ; 

Who cross to the hill-side 
Thin-sprinkled with farms, 
Where the high woods strip sadly 
Their yellowing arms, — 

Ye are bound for the mountains! 
Ah! with you let me go 

Where your cold, distant barrier, 
The vast range of snow, 

Through the loose clouds lifts dimly 


108 LOVE POEMS. 


Its white peaks in air. 
How deep is there stillness! 
Ah! would I were there! 


But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, 
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? 
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn 
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? 
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook 
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? 
Ah! it comes nearer — 
Sweet notes, this way! 


Hark! fast by the window 

The rushing winds go, 

To the ice-cumbered gorges, 

The vast seas of snow! 

There the torrents drive upward 
Their rock-strangled hum ; 

There the avalanche thunders 

The hoarse torrent dumb. 

— I come, O ye mountains! 

Ye torrents, I come! 


But who is this, by the half-opened door, 
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? 
The sweet blue eyes —the soft, ash-colored hair— 
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — 
The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells 
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells — 
Ah! they bend nearer — 
Sweet lips, this way! 


LOVE POEMS. 109 


Hark! the wind rushes past us! 

Ah! with that let me go 

To the clear, waning hill-side, 
Unspotted by snow, 

There to watch, o’er the sunk vale, 
The frore mountain wall, 

Where the niched snow-bed sprays down 
Its powdery fall. 

There its dusky blue clusters 

The aconite spreads ; 

There the pines slope, the cloud-strips 
Hung soft in their heads. 

No life but, at moments, 

The mountain bee’s hum. 

—Icome, O ye mountains! 

Ye pine-woods, I come! 


Forgive me! forgive me! 
Ah, Marguerite, fain 

Would these arms reach to clasp thee! 
But see! ‘tis in vain. 


In the void air, towards thee, 
My stretched arms are cast ; 

But a sea rolls between us, ~ 
Our different past! 


To the lips, ah! of others 
Those lips have been prest, 
And others, ere I was, 
Were strained to that breast. 


110 LOVE POEMS. 


Far, far from each other 
Our spirits have grown. 

And what heart knows another? 
Ah! who knows his own? 


Blow, ye winds! lift me with you! 
I come to the wild. 

Fold closely, O Nature! 
Thine arms round thy child. 


To thee only God granted 
A heart ever new, — 
To all always open, 
To all always true. 


Ah! calm me, restore me; 
And dry up my tears 

On thy high mountain platforms, 
Where morn first appears ; 


Where the white mists, forever, 
Are spread and upfurled, — 

In the stir of the forces 
Whence issued the world. 


Ill. A FAREWELL. 


My horse’s feet beside the lake, 

Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, 
Sent echoes through the night to wake 

Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. 


LOVE POEMS. 111 


The poplar avenue was passed, 

And the roofed bridge that spans the stream, 
Up the steep street I hurried fast, 

Led by thy taper’s starlike beam. 


I came! I saw thee rise! the blood 
Poured flushing to thy languid cheek. 
Locked in each other’s arms we stood, 
In tears, with hearts too full to speak. 


Days flew; ah, soon I could discern 

A trouble in thine altered air! 

Thy hand lay languidly in mine, 

Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. 


I blame thee not! This heart, I know, 
To be long loved was never framed ; 

For something in its depths doth glow 
Too strange, too restless, too untamed. 


And women, — things that live and move 
Mined by the fever of the soul, — 

They seek to find in those they love 
Stern strength, and promise of control. 


They ask not kindness, gentle ways ; 

These they themselves have tried and known; 
They ask a soul which never sways 

With the blind gusts that shake their own. 


112 LOVE POEMS. 


I too have felt the load I bore 

In a too strong emotion’s sway ; 

I too have wished, no woman more, 
This starting, feverish heart away. 


I too have longed for trenchant force, 

And will like a dividing spear ; 

Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, 
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear. 


But in the world I learnt, what there 
Thou too will surely one day prove, — 
That will, that energy, though rare, 
Are yet far, far less rare than love. 


Go, then! till time and fate impress 
This truth on thee, be mine no more! 
They will! for thou, I feel, not less 
Than I,. was destined to this lore. 


We school our manners, act our parts; 
But He, who sees us through and through, 
Knows that the bent of both our hearts 
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. 


And though we wear out life, alas! 
Distracted as a homeless wind, 

In beating where we must not pass, 
In seeking what we shall not find; 


LOVE POEMS. 113 


Yet we shall one day gain, life past, 
Clear prospect o’er our being’s whole; 
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last 
Our true affinities of soul. 


We shall not then deny a course 

To every thought the mass ignore; 
We shall not then call hardness force, 
Nor lightness wisdom any more. 


Then, in the eternal Father’s smile, 

Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare 
To seem as free from pride and guile, 
As good, as generous, as they are. 


Then we shall know our friends! Though much 
Will have been lost, — the help in strife, 

The thousand sweet, still joys of such 

As hand in hand face earthly life, — 


Though these be lost, there will be yet 
A sympathy august and pure; 
Ennobled by a vast regret, 

And by contrition sealed thrice sure. 


And we, whose ways were unlike here, 
May then more neighboring courses ply ; 
May to each other be brought near, 

And greet across infinity. 


‘414 LOVE POEMS. 


How sweet, unreached by earthly jars, 
My sister! to maintain with thee 

The hush among the shining stars, 
The calm upon the moonlit sea! 


How sweet to feel, on the boon air, 
All our unquiet pulses cease! 

To feel that nothing can impair 

The gentleness, the thirst for peace, —~ 


The gentleness too rudely hurled 
On this wild earth of hate and fear; 
The thirst for peace, a raving world 
Would never let us satiate here. 


IV. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE. 


We were apart: yet, day by day, 

I bade my heart more constant be. 

I bade it keep the world away, . 

And grow a home for only thee; 

Nor feared but thy love likewise grew, 

Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. 


The fault was grave! I might have known, 
What far too soon, alas! I learned, — 

The heart can bind itself alone, 

And faith may oft be unreturned. 
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell. 
Thou lov’st no more. Farewell! Farewell! 


LOVE POEMS. 115 


Farewell! — And thou, thou lonely heart, 
Which never yet without remorse 

Even for a moment didst depart 

From thy remote and spheréd course 

To haunt the place where passions reign, — 
Back to thy solitude again! 


Back! with the conscious thrill of shame 
Which Luna felt, that summer-night, 
Flash through her pure immortal frame, 
When she forsook the starry height 

To hang o’er Endymion’s sleep 

Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. 


Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved 
How vain a thing is mortal love, 

Wandering in heaven, far removed ; 

But thou hast long had place to prove 

This truth, —to prove, and make thine own: 
‘‘ Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.” 


Or, if not quite alone, yet they 

Which touch thee are unmating things, — 
Ocean and clouds and night and day; 
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; 
And life, and others’ joy and pain, 

And love, if love, of happier men. 


Of happier men; for they, at least. 
Have dreamed two human hearts might blend 
In one, and were through faith released 


116 LOVE POEMS. 


From isolation without end 
Prolonged; nor knew, although not less 
Alone than thou, their loneliness. 


V. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED. 


Yes! in the sea of life enisled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 
Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 


But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring, 
And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; 

And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 
Across the sounds and channels pour,— 
Oh! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 
Parts of a single continent! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain: 
Oh, might our marges meet again! 


Who ordered that their longing’s fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? 
Who renders vain their deep desire? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled! 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. 


LOVE POEMS. 11? 


VI. ABSENCE. 


In this fair stranger’s eyes of gray. 
Thine eyes, my love! I see. 

I shiver; for the passing day 
Had borne me far from thee. 


This is the curse of life! that not 
A nobler, calmer train 

Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
Our passions from our brain; 


But each day brings its petty dust, 
Our soon-choked souls to fill; 

And we forget because we must, 
And not because we will. 


I struggle towards the light; and ye, 
Once-longed-for storms of love! 

If with the light ye cannot be, 
I bear that ye remove. 


I struggle towards the light; but oh, 
While yet the night is chill, 

Upon time’s barren, stormy flow, 
Stay with me, Marguerite, still! 


VII. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. 


(Composed ten years after the preceding.) 


Ten years! and to my waking eye 
Once more the roofs of Berne appear; 
The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
The stream! and do I linger here? 


118 


LOVE POEMS. 


The clouds are on the Oberland, 

The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; 

But bright are those green fields at hand, 

And through those fields comes down the Aar, 


And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, 
Flows by the town, the churchyard fair ; 
And ‘neath the garden-walk it hums, 
The house! and is my Marguerite there? 


Ah! shall I see thee, while a flush 

Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 
Quick through the oleanders brush, 
And clap thy hands, and cry, ’7zs thou! 


Or hast thou long since wandered back, 


Daughter of France! to France, thy home; 
And flitted down the flowery track 
Where feet like thine too lightly come? 


Doth riotous laughter now replace 

Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, 
Thy cheek’s soft hue, and fluttering lace 
The kerchief that inwound thy hair? 


Or is it over? art thou dead? — 
Dead! — and no warning shiver ran 
Across my heart, to say thy thread 
Of life was cut, and closed thy span! 


LOVE POEMS. 119 


Could from earth’s ways that figure slight 
Be lost, and I not feel twas so? 

Of that fresh voice the gay delight 

Fail from earth’s air, and I not know? 


Or shall I find thee still, but changed, 
But not the Marguerite of thy prime? 
With all thy being re-arranged, — 
Passed through the crucible of time; 


With spirit vanished, beauty waned, 
And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 

A gesture — anything — retained 

Of all that was my Marguerite’s own? 


I will not know! For wherefore try, 

To things by mortal course that live, 

A shadowy durability, 

For which they were not meant, to give? 


Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass 
Upon the boundless ocean-plain, 

So on the sea of life, alas! 

Man meets man, — meets, and quits again. 


I knew it when my life was young; 

I feel it still now youth is o’er. 

— The mists are on the mountain hung, 
And Marguerite I shall see no more. 


MatTTrHew ARNOLD, 


? 


120 LOVE POEMS, 


EVELYN HOPE. 


I. 

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass; 

Little has yet been changed, I think: 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink. 


il. 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
It was not her time to love; beside, 

Her lite had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir, 
Till God’s hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 


Ill. 
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 
What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew — 
And just because I was thrice as old, 
And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 
We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 


LOVE POEMS. 121 


IV. 


No, indeed! for God above 
Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love: 
I claim you still, for my own love’s sake! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
Much is to learn, much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 


Vv. 


But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
Yn the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium’s red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one’s stead. 


VI. 


I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 
Given up myself so many times, 

Gained me the gains of various men, 
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 

Yet one thing, one, in my soul’s full scope, 
Either I missed or itself missed me: 

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 
What is the issue? let us see! 


122 LOVE POEMS. 


VII. 


I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! 
My heart seemed full as it could hold; 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, | 
And the red young mouth, and the hair’s young 
gold. 
So hush, —I will give you this leaf to keep: 
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! 
There, that is our secret: go to sleep! 
You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
RoseRT BROWNING. 


SONG. 


OH, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, 
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, 
For those raptures that still are thine own. 


Though April his temples may wreathe with the 
vine, 
Its tendrils in infancy curled, 
*Tis the ardor of August matures us the wine, 
Whose life-blood enlivens the world. 


Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a 
fay’s, 
Has assumed a proportion more round, 


LOVE POEMS. 123 


And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon’s at 
gaze, 
Looks soberly now on the ground, — 


Enough, after absence to meet me again, 
Thy steps still with ecstasy move ; 
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain 
For me the kind language of love. 
Str WALTER ScoTT. 





WISTERIA. 


How tenderly the twilight falls 

About our dear home’s flowery walls, 
Upon the garden bowers, 

The breeze sighs over beds of bloom, 

My darling, leave the dusky room, 
Come out among the flowers. 


Come forth, my wife, and stand with me, 

Beneath our favorite chestnut-tree — 
The glory of our lawn — 

Look up, dear heart, in skies afar, 

How softly beams the evening star — 
The garish sun is gone. 


How clearly from the coppice floats 
The brown bird’s strain— its magic notes 
Of joy and sorrow blent. 
How sweetly from the southern wall 
Delightsome odors round us fall, 
The rich wisteria’s scent. 


124 


LOVE POEMS. 


See, darling, in this tender gloom 

The clusters of its purple bloom 
Peep out amid the green: 

A comely Summer robe it weaves 

Of sturdy twigs and tender leaves, 
With splendid blooms between. 


How rich and full a life must beat 
In its green branches! fair and sweet 
It flowered in the Spring ; 
And yet, ere Summer days are done, 
It spreadeth to the Summer sun 
A second blossoming. 


It seemeth unto us a type 
Of love, Spring-born, but Summer-ripe, 
Full-hearted love like ours, . 
That sweetly smiled on life’s young Spring, 
Yet hath its fuller blossoming 
In these maturer hours. 


Our lives were like the Spring-time boughs 
Of this old tree, which wreaths our house 
With purple twice a year, 
No leafage green of worldly praise, 
Or worldly wealth made glad our days, 
But lowly love was dear! 


Ah, darling! on this Summer night 
Our hearts brimful with deep delight, 
We bless God as we stand 


LOVE POEMS. 125 


Beneath his arch of twilight sky 
At rest, too glad to smile or sigh, 
The happiest in the land. 


Our tree of life is strong and full 
Of leafage verdant, beautiful, 
With blossoms in their prime, 
For love, like fair wisteria flowers, 
Brings, with full hands, to us and ours 
A second blossom-time. 
All the Year Round, 


SONNET. 


Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 

For if of our affections none find grace 

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 
The world which we inhabit? Better plea 

Love cannot have than that in loving thee 

Glory to that eternal peace is paid, 

Who such divinity to thee imparts 

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 

With beauty, which is varying every hour; 

But, in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 


That breathes on earth the air of Paradise. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Translated by William Wordsworth. 


a 


LOVE POEMS. 


MARRIED LOVERS. 


COME away, the clouds are high, 
Put the flashing needles by. 

Many days are not to spare, 

Or to waste, my fairest fair! 

All is ready. Come to-day, 

For the nightingale her lay, 

When she findeth that the whole 

Of her love, and all her soul, 

Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 
Sobs the while she draws her breath, 
And the bravery of her note 

In a few days altereth. 

Come, ere she despond, and see 

In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 
All the glory of their flowers 

To the melting blue above, 

That broods over them like love. 
Leave the garden walls, where blow 
Apple-blossoms pink, and low 
Ordered beds of tulips fine. 

Seek the blossoms made divine 
With a scent that is their soul. 
These are soulless. Bring the white 
Of thy gown to bathe in light 

Walls for narrow hearts. The whole 
Earth is found, and air and sea, 

Not too wide for thee and me. 


LOVE POEMS. 127 


Not too wide, and yet thy face 

Gives the meaning of all space, 

And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught ; 
Hold the measure of all thought ; 
For of them my soul besought, 

And was shown a glimpse of thine — 
A veiled vestal, with divine 

Solace, in sweet love’s despair, 

For that life is brief as fair. 

Who hath most, he vearneth most, 
Sure, as seldom heretofore, 
Somewhere of the gracious more. 
Deepest joy the least shall boast, 
Asking with new-opened eyes 

The remainder; that which lies 

O, so fair! but not all conned — 

O, so near! and yet beyond. 


Come, and in the woodland sit, 
Seem a wonted part of it. 

Then, while moves the delicate air, 
And the glories of thy hair 

Little flickering sun-rays strike, 

Let me see what thou art like; 

For great love enthralls me so, 
That, in sooth, I scarcely know 
Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges’ sheen, 
Where the flies, white sparks of fire. 
Dart and hover and aspire, 

And the leaves, air-stirred on high, ; 


128 


LOVE POEMS. 


Feel such joy they needs must sigh, 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet, 

And the bees about them hum. 

All the world is waiting. Come! 


JzAN INGELOW. 
FO 


HOW MANY TIMES. 


How many times do I love thee, dear? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fall’n year, 
Whose white and sable hours appear 
The latest flake of Eternity ; 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 


How many times do I love, again? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain, 
Unravelled from the tumbling main, 
And threading the eye of a yellow star: 


So many times do I love again. 
Tuomas LOvELL BEDDOES 


a Oa 


JAMES LEE’S WIFE. 


I. 


AH, Love, but a day, 
And the world has changed! 


LOVE POEMS. 129 


The sun’s away, 
And the bird estranged ; 
The wind has dropped, 
And the sky’s deranged: 
Summer has stopped. 


NTs 
Look in my eyes! 
Wilt thou change too? 
Should I fear surprise? 
Shall I find aught new 
In the old and dear, ° 
In the good and true, 
With the changing year? 


III. 
Thou art a man, 
But I am thy love. 
For the lake, its swan ; 
For the dell, its dove; 
And for thee — (oh, haste!) 
Me to bend above, 
Me, to hold embraced. . 





AMONG THE ROCKS. 


ie 
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth, 
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones 
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet 


130 LOVE POEMS. 


For the ripple to run over in its mirth; 
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones 
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. 


Il. 


That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 
Such is life’s trial,as old earth smiles and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your love, 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: 
Make the low nature better by your throes! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! 


ALONG THE BEACH. 


I. 


will be quiet and talk with you, 

And reason why you are wrong. 
You wanted my love —is that much true? 
And so I did love, so I do: 

What has come of it all along? 


II. 


I took you— how could I otherwise: 
For a world to me, and more; 
For all, love greatens and glorifies 
Till God’s a-glow, to the loving eyes, 
In what was mere earth before. 


LOVE POEMS. 131 


III. 


Yes, earth — yes, mere ignoble earth! 

Now do I misstate, mistake? 
Do | wrong your weakness and call it worth? 
Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, 

Seal my sense up for your sake? 


IV. 


O Love, Love, no, Love! not so, indeed 
You were just weak earth, I knew: 
With much in you waste, with many a weed, 
And plenty of passions run to seed, 
But a little good grain too. 


V: 


And such as you were, I took you for mine: 
Did not you find me yours, 

To watch the olive and wait the vine, 

And wonder when rivers of oil and wine 
Would flow, as the Book assures? 


VI. 


Well, and if none of these good things came, 
What did the failure prove? 

The man was my whole world, all the same, 

With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame, 
And, either or both, to love. 


132 LOVE POEMS. 


Vil. 


Yet this turns now to a fault — there! there! 
That I do love, watch too long, 

And wait too well, and weary and wear; 

And ’tis all an old story, and my despair 

_ Fit subject for some new song: 


VIII. 


“ How the light, light love, he has wings to fly 
At suspicion of a bond: 

My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by, 

Which will turn up next in a laughing eye, 
And why should you look beyond?” 


RosERT BROWNING. 





THE POET’S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 


O, My love’s like the steadfast sun, 

Or streams that deepen as they run; 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 

Nor moments between sighs and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes, 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 


Even while I muse, I see thee sit 
In maiden bloom and matron wit; 


LOVE POEMS. 133 


Fair, gentle, as when first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 
Set on the sea an hour too soon; 

Or lingered ’mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were few. 


Though I see smiling at thy feet, 

Five sons and a fair daughter sweet, 

And time and care and birthtime woes 

Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate’er charms me in tale or song, 

When words descend like dews, unsought, 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free, 

They come, my love, they come from thee. 


O, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 

’Twas sweet to sit and ponder o’er 

How we should deck our humble bower; 
*Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
The golden fruit of Fortune’s tree ; 

And sweeter still to choose and twine 

A garland for that brow of time, 

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 


134 LOVE POEMS. 


At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought, 

When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 

And Hope, that decks the peasants’ bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower, 
O then I see, while seated nigh, 

A mother’s heart shine in thine eye, 

And proud resolve and purpose meek 
Speak of thee more than words can speak. 
> think this wedded wife of mine, 


The best of all that’s not divine. ; 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 





MY LADY SINGING. 


SHE ...10m this heart must ever hold most dear 
(This heart in happy bondage held so long) 
Began to sing. At first a gentle fear 

Rosied her countenance — for she’s young, 

And he who loves her most of all was near; 

But when at last her voice grew full and strong 
O, from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear 
Bubbled the notes abroad —a rajiturous throng! 
Her little hands were sometimes flung apart, 
And sometimes palm to palm together prest, 
Whilst wave-like blushes, rising from her breast 
Kept time with that aérial melody, 

As muses to the sight! —I standing nigh, 
Received the falling fountain in my heart. 


AuBREY DE Vea 


LOVE POEMS. 135 


MADRIGAL. 


As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, 
The feathered rain came softly down, 
As Jove descending from his tower 
To court her in a silver shower, 

The wanton snow flew to her breast 
As little birds into their nest ; 

But, overcome with whiteness there, 
For grief dissolved into a tear ; 
Thence falling on her garment’s hem, 
To deck her, froze into a gem. 


ANONYMOUS. 


YORK AND LANCASTER. 


IF this fair rose offend thy sight, 
Placed in thy bosom bare, 

’Twill blush to find itself less white, 
And turn Lancastrian there. 


But if thy ruby lip it spy, 
As kiss it thou mayst deign, 
With envy pale *twill lose its dye, 


And Yorkish turn again. 
ANONYMOUS. 


136 


LOVE POEMS. 


JEANIE MORRISON. 


I’vE wandered east, I’ve wandered west, 
Through mony a weary way ; 

But never, never can forget 

The luve o’ life’s young day! 

The fire that’s blawn on Beltane e’en 
May weel be black gin yule; 

But blacker fa’ awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 


O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o’ bygane years 

Still fling their shadows ower my path, 
And blind my een wi’ tears: 


‘They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears, 
And sair and sick I pine, 


As memory idly summons up 
The blithe blinks o’ lang syne. 


"Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

*Twas then we twa did part; 

Sweet time, — sad time! twa bairns at scule, 
Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 

’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 

And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
Remembered evermair. 


I wonder Jeanie, aften yet, 
When sitting on that bink, 


LOVE POEMS, 137 


Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof, 
What our wee heads could think. 

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 
Wi ae buik on our knee, 

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 


O, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
How cheeks brent red wi’ shame, 
Whene’er the scule-weans laughin’ said, 
We cleeked thegither hame? 

And mind ye o’ the Saturdays 

(The scule then skail’t at noon,) 

When we ran off to speel the braes, — 
The broomy braes o’ June? 


My head rins round and round about, 
My heart flows like a sea, 

As one by one the thochts rush back 
O’ Scule-time and o’ thee. 

O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve! 

O lichtsome days and lang, 

When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
Like simmer blossoms sprang! 


O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin’ dinsome town, 

To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon? 

The simmer leaves hung’ ower our heads, 
The flowers burst round our feet, 


138 


LOVE POEMS. 


And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood 
The throssil whusslit sweet ; 


The throssil whusslit in the wood, 
The burn sang to the trees, 

And we with Nature’s heart in tune, 
Concerted harmonies ; 

And on the knowe abune the burn, 
For hours thegither sat 

Yon the silentness 0’ joy, till baith 
Wi’ very gladness grat. 


Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears twinkled down your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
Had ony power to speak! 

That was a time, a blessed time, 
When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
Unsyllabled, — unsung! 


I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 

As closely twined wi’ earliest thochts, 
As ye hae been to me? 

O, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine! 

O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit 
Wi dreamings o’ lang syne? 


LOVE POEMS. 139 


I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west, 
I’ve born a weary lot; 

But in my wanderings, far or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 

The fount that first burst frae this heart 
Still travels on its way ; 

And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The luve o’ life’s young day. 


O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 

I’ve never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o’ your tongue ; 

But I could hug all wretchedness, 
And happy could I die, 

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
O’ bygane days and me! 


WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 


—~oe—— 


I MET WI’ HER I LUVED YESTREEN. 


I MET wi’ her I luved yestreen, 
I met her wi’ a look o’ sorrow; 
My leave I took o’ her for aye, 
A weddit bride she’ll be the morrow! 


She durst na gie ae smile to me, 
Nor drap ae word o’ kindly feelin’, 
Yet down her cheeks the bitter tears, 
In monie a pearly bead, were stealin’. 


140 LOVE POEMS. 


I could na my lost luve upbraid, 
Altho’ my dearest hopes were blighted, 
I could na say — “ ye’re fause to me !” — 
Tho’ to anither she was plighted. 


Like suthfast friens whom death divides, 
In Heaven to meet, we silent parted ; 

Nae voice had we our griefs to speak, 
We felt sae lone and broken-hearted. 


I'll hie me frae my native lan’, 

Far frae thy blythesome banks o’ Yarrow! 
Wae’s me, I canna bide to see 

My winsume luve anither’s marrow! 


I'll hie me to a distant lan’, 

Wi’ downcast ee and life-sick bosom, 
A weary waste the warld’s to me, 

Sin’ I hae lost that bonnie blossom. 


WILLIAM MoTHERWELL, 





A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 


BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy Future give 
Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night 
for me. 


LOVE POEMS. 141 


I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
A shadow of regret: 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I can 
» pledge to thee? 


Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
A possible future shine, 

Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
Untouched, unshared by mine? 

If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. 


Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole; 
Lei no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy 
tell me so. 


Is there within thy heart a need 
That mine cannot fulfil? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life 
wither and decay. 


Lives there within thy nature hid 
The demon-spirit Change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On ail things new and strange? — 
It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my heart 
against thy own. 


142 LOVE “PCL, 


Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
And answer to my claim, 
That Fate, and that to-day’s mistake — 
_Not thou— had been to blame? 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt 
surely warn and save me now. 


Nay, answer sot, —I1 dare not hear, 
The words would come too late; 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So, comfort thee, my Fate — 
Whatever on my heart may fall— remember, I would 


risk it all! 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 


—_#>o—_—_—_ 


A WOMAN’S ANSWER. 


I WILL not let you say a Woman’s part 
Must be to give exclusive love alone; 
Dearest, although I love you so, my heart 
Answers a thousand claims beside your own. 


I love — what do I not love? earth and air 
Find space within my heart, and myriad things 
You would not deign to heed are cherished there, 
And vibrate on its very inmost strings. 


I love the Summer with her ebb and flow 
Of light, and warmth, and music, that have nurst 
Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know 
It was in summer that I saw you first. 


LOVE POEMS. bk 


T jove the Winter dearly, too, . . . but then 
I owe it so much; ona winter’s day, 

Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again, 
When you had been those weary months away. 


I love the Stars like friends ; so many nights 
I gazed at them, when you were far from me, 

Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lights 
Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see. 


I love the Flowers; happy hours lie 
Shut up within their petals close and fast: 
You have forgotten, dear; but they and I 
Keep every fragment of the golden Past. 


I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise 
Seems like a crown upon my Life, — to make 
It better worth the giving, and to raise 
Still nearer to your own the heart you take. 


I love all good and noble souls ; —I heard 

One speak of you but lately, and for days, 
Only to think of it, my soul was stirred 

In the tender memory of such generous praise. 


I love all those who love you; all who owe 
Comfort to you: and I can find regret 

Even for those poorer hearts who once could know 
And once could love you, and can now forget. 


° 


144 LOVE POEMS. 


Well, is my heart so narrow, —I, who spare 
Love for all these ? Do I not even hold 

My favorite books in special tender care, 
And prize them as a miser does his gold? 


The Poets that you used to read to me 

While summer twilights faded in the sky; 
But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, 

Because — because — do you remember why? 


Will you be jealous? Did you guess before 
I loved so many things? Still you the pest: — 
Dearest, remember that I love you more. . 
O, more a thousand times, than all the rest! 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


oe RO 


TRUE OR FALSE, 


So you think you love me, do you? 
Well, it may be so; 

But there are many ways of loving 
I have learnt to know. 

Many ways, and but one true way, 
Which is very rare ; 

And the counterfeits look brightest, | 
Though they will not wear. 


Yet they ring, almost, quite truly, 
Last (with care) for long; 

But in time must break, may shiver 
At a touch of wrong: 


LOVE POEMS. 145 


Having seen what looked most real 
Crumble into dust ; 

Now I chose that test and trial 
Should precede my trust. 


I have seen a love demanding 
Time and hope and tears, 

Chaining all the past, exacting 
Bonds from future years ; 

Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow, 
Claiming as its fee: 

That was Love of Self, and never, 
Never Love of me! 


I have seen a love forgetting 
All above, beyond, 
Linking every dream and fancy 
In a sweeter bond; 
Counting every hour worthless, 
Which was cold or free : — 
That, perhaps, was — Love of Pleasure, 
But not Love of me! 


I have seen a love whose patience 
Never turned aside, 

Full of tender, fond devices ; 
Constant, even when tried ; 

Smallest boons were held as victories, 
Drops that swelled the sea: 

That I think was — Love of Power, 
But not Love of me! 


146 


LOVE POEMS. 


I have seen a love disdaining 
Ease and pride and fame, 

Burning even its own white pinions 
Just to feed its flame: 

Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant, 
By the soul’s decree ; 

That was — Love of Love, I fancy, 
But not Love of me! 


I have heard — or dreamt, it may be— 
What Love is when true: 
How to test and how to try it, 
Is the gift of few: | 
These few say (or did I dream it?) 
That true Love abides 
In these very things, but always 
Has a soul besides. 
$ 
Lives among the false loves, knowing 
Just their peace and strife ; 
Bears the self-same look, but always 
Has an inner life. 
Only a true heart can find it, 
True as it is true, 
Only eyes as clear and tender 
Look it through and through. 


If it dies, it will not perish 
By Time’s slow decay, 

True Love only grows (they tell me) 
Stronger, day by day: 


Ceres? POLS. 147 


Pain — has been its friend and comrade ; 
Fate — it can defy ; 

Only by its own sword, sometimes 
Love can choose to die. 


And its grave shall be more noble 
And more sacred still, 
Than a throne, where one less worthy 
Reigns and rules at will. 
Tell me then, do you dare offer 
This true Love to me?... 
Neither you nor I can answer; 
We will — wait and see! 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


—O 


PsAW THEE, WEEP. 


ie 


I sAw thee weep — the big bright tear 
Came o’er that eye of blue; 

And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew ; 

I saw thee smile — the sapphire’s blaze 
Beside thee ceased to shine; 

It could not match the living rays 
That fill’d that glance of thine. 


II. 


As clouds from yonder sun receive 
A deep and yellow die, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 


148 LOVE POEMS. 


Can banish from the sky, 

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
Their own pure joy impart ; , 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 


That lightens o’er the heart. 
Lorp Byron 


OB 


ORIGIN OF LOVE. 


THE “ Origin of Love!” — Ah, why 
That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou may’st read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee? 
And should’st thou seek his ed to know: 
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
He'll linger long in silent woe ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 
Lorp Byron 





THE DREAM. 
I. 


Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 

And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 


LOVE POEMS. 149 


They do divide our being; they become 

_ A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future; they have power 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; 
They make us what we were not — what they will 
And shake us with the vision that’s gone by, 
The dread of vanish’d shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream’d 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 


II. 


I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 

Green and of mild declivity, the last 

As ‘twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter’d at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 

Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 


150 LOVE POLMS: 


Of trees, in circular array, so fix’d, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 

Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 

And that was shining on him; he had look’d 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words; she was his sight, 
For his eye follow’d hers, and saw with hers, 
Which color’d all his objects : — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all: upon a tone. 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share: 
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more; ’twas much 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow’d on him; 
Herself the solitary scion left 


LOVE POEMS. 151 


Of a time-honor’d race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not —and 
why? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover’s steed 

Kept pace ~=th her expectancy, and flew. 


TIES 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison’d: 

Within an antique Oratory stood 

Tlfe Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean’d 
His bow’d head on his hands, and shook as ’twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again, 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet: as ke paused, 

The Lady of his love re-enter’d there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken’d with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 


152 LOVE POEMS. 


He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand; a moment o’er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; 

He dropp’d the hand he held, and with slow steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass’d 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way; 
And ne’er repass’d that hoary threshold more. 


. IV. 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds’ 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 

And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 
Himself like what he had been; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 

There was a mass of many images 

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 

A part of all: and in the last he lay 

Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 

Couch’d among fallen columns, in the shade 

Of ruin’d walls that had survived the names 

Of those who rear’d them; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten’d near a fountain; and a man 

Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber’d around, 


MOv ee LOLS, 153 


And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 


Vv. 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream, 

The Lady of his love was wed with One 

Who did not love her better: —in her home 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill repress’d affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be?— She had loved him 
not, 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey’d 

Upon her mind —a spectre of the past. 


VI. 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was return’d. —I saw him stand 
Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 


154 LOVE POEMS. 


The Starlight of his Boyhood; as he stood 

Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude; and then — 

As in that hour —a moment o’er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel’d around him; he could see 

Not that which was. nor that which should have 
been, 

But the old mansion, and the accustom’d hall, 

And the remember’d chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time? 


Vil. 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love; Oh! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
Had wander’d from its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 


LOVE POLMS. 155 


And forms impalpable and unperceived 

Of others’ sight familiar were to hers. 

And this the world calls phrensy, but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 

What is it but the telescope of truth? 

Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real! 


VIIl. 


A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass’d round 

With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix’d 

In all which was served up to him, until 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment, he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open’d wide 

And voices from the deep abyss revealed 

A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 


156 LOVE POEMS, 


IX. 


My dream was past; it had no future change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 


Lorp Byron 
#0 , 


LOVE. 


ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 

And feed his sacred flame. 


Oft in my waking dreams do I 

Live o’er again that happy hour, 

When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin’d tower. 


The moonshine stealing o’er the scene 

Had blended with the lights of eve; 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve! 


She lean’d against the arméd man, 

The statue of the arméd knight ; 

She stood and listen’d to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 


LOVE POEMS. 157 


Few sorrows hath she of her own, 

My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 

She loves me best, whene’er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 


I play’d a soft and doleful air, 

I sang an old and moving story — 

An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 


She listen’d with a flitting blush, 

With downcast eyes and modest grace; 

For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 


I told her of the Knight that wore 

Upon his shield a burning brand; 

And that for ten long years he woo’d 
The Lady of the Land. 


I told her how he pined: and ah! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 

With which I sang another’s love 
Interpreted my own. 


She listen’d with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 

Too fondly on her face. 


158 


LOVE POEMS. 


But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 

And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 


That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 

In green and sunny glade, 


There came and look’d him in the face 

An angel beautiful and bright ; 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight! 


And that unknowing what he did, 

He leap’d amid a murderous band, 

And saved from outrage worse than dea*h 
The Lady of the Land; 


And how she wept, and clasp’d his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain; 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 


And that she nursed him in a cave, 

And how his madness went away, 

When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay; 


LOVE POEMS. 159 


— His dying words — but when I reach’d 

That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 

My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb’d her soul with pity! 


All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 

The rich and balmy eve; 


And hopes and fears that kindle hope, 

An undistinguishable throng, 

And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherish’d long. 


She wept with pity and delight, 
She blush’d with love, and virgin shame; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 


Her bosom heaved — she stepp’d aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 

She fled to me and wept. 


She half enclosed me with her arms, 

She press’d me with a meek embrace ; 

And bending back her head, look’d up, 
And gazed upon my face. 


.60 LOVE POEMS. 


*Twas partly love, and partly fear, 

And partly ’twas a bashful art 

That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 


I calm’d her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous Bride. 
S. T. CoLERIDGE, 





LL FORD COME: 


O TALK not to me of a name great in story ; 

The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 

Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 


What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 
wrinkled? 

’Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 

Then away with all such from the head that is 
hoary — 

What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 


O Fame! —if I e’er took delight in thy praises, 

’T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 


LOVE: POEMS. 161 


There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 

Her glance was the best of the rays that surround 
thee ; 

When it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my 
story, 

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 


Lorp Byron. 
ee 


THE LOST LOVE. 


SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove ; 

A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love. 


A violet by a mossy stone 
Half-hidden from the eye! 

— Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 


She lived unknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and O! 


The difference to me! 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


SHALL I compare thee to a summer’s day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: 


162 LOVE POEMS. 


Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed ; 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed ; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st ; 

Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: 

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
———~+o— 


SHE is not fair to outward view 
As many maidens be; 

Her loveliness I never knew 
Until she smiled on me. 

O then I saw her eye was bright, 

A well of love, a spring of light. 


But now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne’er reply, 

And yet I cease not to behold 
The love-light in her eye: 

Her very frowns are fairer far 


Than smiles of other maidens are. 
H. CoLeripGE. 
—-~oe—— 


Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 

Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 


LOVE POEMS. 163 


Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 


Love itself shall slumber on. 
P, B. SHELLEY. 





fee LRUE BEAUTY: 


HE that loves a rosy cheek 
Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 


But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 

Where these are not, I despise 


Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
T. CaRgEw. 


TO DIANEME. 


SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes 
Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 

All hearts your captives; yours yet free: 


164 


LOVE POEMS. 


Be you not proud of that rich hair 
Which wantons with the lovesick air; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 


When all your world of beauty’s gone. 
R. HERRICK, 


te 


Go, lovely Rose! 

Tell her, that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows, 

When I resemble her to thee, 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 


Tell her that’s young 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 
That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 


Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired: 
Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 


Then die! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee: 

How small a part of time they share 


That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 
E. WALLER. 


LOVE POEMS. 165 


BUN DELO V i: 


O ME! what eyes hath love put in my head 
Which have no correspondence with true sight * 
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled 
That censures falsely what they see aright? 


If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 
What means the world to say it is not so? 
If it be not, then love doth well denote 

Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: No, 


How can it! O how can love’s eye be true, 
That is so vex’d with watching and with tears? 
No marvel then though I mistake my view: 
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 


O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind, 
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find! 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 


WHERESSHALL THE: LOVER REST? 


WHERE Shall the lover rest 
Whom the fates sever 

From his true maiden’s breast 
Parted forever? 

Where, through groves deep and high 
Sounds the far billow, 


166 LOVE POEMS. 


Where early violets die 
Under the willow. 
Eleu loro 
Soft shall be his pillow. 


There, through the summer day 
Cool streams are laving: 
There, while the tempests sway, 
Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There thy rest shalt thou take, 
Parted forever, 
Never again to wake 
Never, O never! 
Eleu loro 
Never, O never! 


Where shall the traitor rest, 
He, the deceiver, 

Who could win maiden’s breast, 
Ruin, and leave her? 

- In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 

Where mingles war’s rattle 
With groans of the dying; . 

Eleu loro 

There shall he be lying. 


Her wing shall the eagle flap 
O’er the false-hearted ; 

His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
Ere life be parted : 


LOVE POEMS. 


Shame and dishonor sit 
By his grave ever; 
Blessing shall hallow it 
Never, O never! 

Eleu loro 
Never, O never! 


a 


167 


Sir W. Scortr. 





ONE word is too often profaned 
For me to profane it, 

One feeling too falsely disdain’d 
For thee to disdain it. 

One hope is too like despair 
For prudence to smother, 

And Pity from thee more dear 
Than that from another. 


I can give not what men call love; 
But wilt thou accept not 

The worship the heart lifts above 
And the Heavens reject not: 

The desire of the moth for the star, 
Of the night for the morrow, 

The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow? 


P. B. SHELLEY. 


168 LOVE POEMS. 


A BIRTHDAY. 


My heart is like a singing bird 
Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; 
My heart is like an apple tree 
Whose boughs are bent with thickest fruit ; 
My heart is like a rainbow shell 
That paddles in a halcyon sea — 
My heart is gladder than all these, 
Because my love is come to me. 


Raise me a dais of silk and down, 
Hang it with vair and purple dyes, 
Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, 
And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; 
Work it in gold and silver grapes, 
In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys, 
Because the birthday of my life 
Is come, my love is come to me. 


CHRISTINA GEORGIANA ROSSETTI. 


—— 00 


FROM “THE WINTER'S, TALE” 


WHAT you do | 

Still betters what is done. When you speak, 
sweet, 

I'd have you do it ever; when you sing, 

I’d have you buy.and sell so, so give alms, 

Pray so; and, for the ordering of your affairs, 


LOVE POEMS. 169 


To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do 

Nothing but that; move still, still so, 

And own no other function. Each your doing, 

So singular in each particular, 

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, 


That all your acts are queens. 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 





SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 


Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 

Of individual life, I shall command 

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 

Without the sense of that which | forbore,... 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes, the tears-of two. 





If thou must love me, let it be for nought 

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say 

“T love her for her smile. . . her look . . . her way 
Of speaking gently, . . . for a trick of thought 


170 LOVE POEMS. 


That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ”— 

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 

Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so 
wrought, 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry, — 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore 

Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity. 





Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 

That thou wast in the world a year ago, 

What time I sate alone here in the snow 

And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink 

No moment at thy voice, . . . but, link by link, 
Went counting all my chains, as if that so 

They never could fall off at any blow 

Struck by thy possible hand . . . why, thus I drink 
Of life’s great cup of wonder! Wonderful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 

With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white 
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. 
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead, 

Would’st thou miss*any life in losing mine? 

And would the sun for thee more coldly shine, 


LOVE POEMS. 171 


Because of grave-damps falling round my head? 

I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 

Thy thought so in the letter. [am thine — 

But... sa much to thee? Can I pour thy wine 

While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead 

Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range. 

Then, love me, Love! look on me... breathe on 
me! 

As brighter ladies do not count it strange, 

For love, to give up acres and degree, 

I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange 

My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee! 





Thou comest! all is said without a word. 

I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 

In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through 
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 

Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred 

In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue 

The sin most, but the occasion . . . that we two 
Should for a moment stand unministered 

By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close, 
Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise, 
With thy broad heart serenely interpose. 

Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies 

These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those, 
Like callow birds left desert to the skies. 





If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me? Shall I never miss 


172 LOVE POEMS. 


Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 
When I look up, to drop on a new range 

Of walls and floors . . . another home than this? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? 
That’s hardest. If to conquer love, has tried, 

To conquer grief, tries more . . . as all things prove: 
For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 

Alas I have grieved so I am hard to love. 

Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, 
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove. 





Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace 
To look through and behind this mask of me, 
(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly 
With their rains,) and behold my soul’s true face, 
The dim and weary witness of life’s race! — 
Because thou hast the faith and love to see, 
Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy, 
The patient angel waiting for a place 

In the new Heavens! — because nor sin nor woe, 
Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighborhood, 
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, ... 
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, .. . 
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so 
To pour out gratitude as thou dost, good. 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 


LOVE POEMS. 173 


For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of everyday’s 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,, 





FROM “THE EPITHALAMIUM.” 


OPEN the temple gates unto my love, 

Open them wide that she may enter in, 

And all the posts adorn as doth behove, 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, 
For to receive this saint with honor due, 
That cometh in to you. 

With trembling steps, and humble reverence, 
She cometh in, before the Almighty’s view: 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 

When so ye come into those holy places, 
To humble your proud faces : 

Bring her up to the high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake, 

The which do endless matrimony make ; 
And Jet the roaring organs Joud!y play 


174 LOVE POEMS. 


The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 

The whiles, with hollow throats, 

The choristers the joyous anthem sing, 

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 
Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, 
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain, 
Like crimson dyed in grain ; 

That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 

Forget their service, and about her fly, 

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair 
The more they on it stare. 

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 

That suffers not one look to glance awry, 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, 
The pledge of all our band? 

Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluia sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 


EDMUND SPENSER. 





A COMPLAINT. 


THERE is a change, — and I am poor; 
Your love hath been, nor long ago, 
A fountain at my fond heart’s door, 


LOVE POEMS. 175 


Whose only business was to flow; 
And flow it did, not taking heed 
Of its own bounty, or my need. 


What happy moments did I count! 
Blest was I then all bliss above! 
Now, for that consecrated fount 
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
What have I? Shall I dare to tell? 
A comfortless and hidden well. 


A well of love; it may be deep, — 
I trust it is, —and never dry. 
What matter? Ifthe waters sleep 
In silence and obscurity. 
Such change, and at the very door 
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 


WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 





ROWAN THISA: 


BID me to live, and I will live 
Thy protestant to be: 

Or bid me love, and I will give 
A loving heart to thee. 


A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 
A heart as sound and free, 

As in the whole world thou canst find. 
That heart I'll give'to thee. 


176 LOVE POEMS. 


Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 
To honor thy decree ; 

Or bid it languish quite away, 
And ’t shall do so for thee. 


Bid me to weep, and I will weep, 
While I have eyes to see, 

And having none, yet I will keep 
A heart to weep for thee. 


Bid me despair, and I’ll despair 
Under that cypress tree: 

Or bid me die, and I will dare 
E’en death, to die for thee. 


Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 
The very eyes of me, 

And hast command of every part, 
To live and die for thee. 


RoserRtT HERRICK, 


PASSAGES FROM “ PARADISE LOST.” 


UNDER his forming hands a creature grew, 
Manlike, but different sex, so Jovely fair, 

That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now 
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained, 

And in her looks, which from that time infused 
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before, 

And into all things from her air inspired 

The spirit of love and amorous delight. 


LOVE POEMS. 177 


She disappeared, and left me dark; I waked 

To find her, or forever to deplore 

' Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure: 

When out of hope, beheld her, not far off, 

Such as I saw her in my dreams, adorned 

With what all earth or heaven could bestow 

To make her amiable. On she came, 

Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, 

And guided by his voice, nor uninformed 

Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites: 

Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 

In every gesture dignity and love! 

* * * * * * 

If death 

Consort with thee, death is to me as life, 

So forcible within my heart I feel 

The bond of nature draw me to my own, 

My own in thee, for what thou art is mine; 

Our state cannot be severed, we are one, 

One flesh, to lose thee were to lose myself. 


* * * * * * 


With thee to go 
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, 
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me 
Art all things under heaven, all places thou, 
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. 


Joun MILTON. 


178 LOVE POEMS. 


SONG. 


I PRITHEE send me back my heart, 
Since I cannot have thine, 

For if from yours you will not part, 
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine? 


Yet now I think on’t, let it lie; 
To find it were in vain; 

For thou’st a thief in either eye 
Would steal it back again. 


Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
And yet not lodge together? 

© Love! where is thy sympathy, 
If thus our breasts thou sever? 


But love is such a mystery, 
I cannot find it out; 

For when I think I’m best resolved, 
I then am in most doubt. 


Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 
I will no longer pine: 
For I'll believe I have her heart 


As much as she has mine. 
Sir JoHN SUCKLING 





AY MATCHES 


IF love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather, 


LOVE POEMS. 179 


Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 

If love were what the rose is, 
And I were like the leaf. 


If I were what the words are, 
And love were like the tune, 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 
With kisses glad as birds are 
That get sweet rain at noon; 
If I were what the words are 
And love were like the tune. 


If you were life, my darling, 
_ And I your love were death, 
We'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 
If you were life, my darling, 

And I your love were death. 


If you were thrall to sorrow, 
And I were page to joy, 

We'd play for lives and seasons 

With loving looks and treasons 

And tears of night and morrow 
And laughs of maid and boy; 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 
And I were page to joy. 


180 LOVE POEMS. 


If you were April’s lady, 
And I were lord in May, 
We'd throw with leaves for hours 
And draw for days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady 
And night were bright like day; 
. If you were April’s lady, 
And I were lord in May. 


If you were queen of pleasure, 
And I were king of pain, 
We'd hunt aown love together, 
Pluck out his flying feather, 
And teach his feet a measure, 
And find his mouth a rein; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 
And I were king of pain. 


ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNB 


OO 


LINES. 


UNFELT, unheard, unseen, 
I’ve left my little queen, 
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying. 
Ah! through their nestling touch, 
Who — who can tell how much 
There is for madness — cruel, or complying? 


Those faery lids how sleek! 
Those lips how moist! — they speak, 


LOVE POEMS, 181 


In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: 
Into my fancy’s ear 
Melting a burden dear, 
How “love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.” 


Joun Keats, 


IF TO THY HEART I WERE AS NEAR. 


[F to thy heart I were as near 
As thou art near to mine, 

Ud hardly care though a’ the year 

Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear! 
Nae sun on earth suld shine! 


Twin starries are thy glancing een, — 
A warld they’d licht, and mair ; 

And gin that ye be my Christine, 

Ae blink to me ye’ll spare, my dear, 
Ae blink to me ye'll spare! 


My leesome may I’ve wooed too lang; 
Aneath the trystin’ tree 

I’ve sung till a’ the plantins rang 

Wi lays o’ love for thee, my dear, 
Wi lays o’ love for thee! 


The dew-draps glisten on the green, 
The laverlocks lilt on high. 
We'll forth and down the lane, Christine, 
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear, 
And kiss when nane is nigh! 
WiL.tiAM MOTHERWELL, 


182 LOVE POEMS. 


CAELI. 


IF stars were really watching eyes 
Of angel armies in the skies, 

I should forget all watchers there, 
And only for your glances care. 


And if your eyes were really stars 

With leagues that none can mete for bars 
To keep me from their longed-for day, 

I could not feel more far away! 





GATHERED ROSES. 


ONLY a bee made prisoner, 
Caught in a gathered rose! 

Was he not ’ware a flower so fair 
For the first gatherer grows? 


Only a heart made prisoner, 
Going out free no more! 
Was he not ’ware a face so fair 
Must have been gathered before? 
Francis W. BourDILLON 


THE TIME IP’VE LOST IN WOOING. 


THE time I’ve lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 
The light that lies 
In woman’s eyes, 
Has been my heart’s undoing 


LOVE POEMS. 183 


Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorned the lore she brought me, 
My only books 
Were woman’s looks, 
And folly’s all they’ve taught me. 


Tuomas MoorE 





JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 


JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent, 

Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 

But now your brow is beld, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 


John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a canty day, John, 
We've had wi’ ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo. 
RoBeERT Burns 


84 


LOVE POEMS. 


FADED LEAVES. 


THE RIVER. 


STILL glides the stream, slow drops the boat 
Under the rustling poplars’ shade ; 

Silent the swans beside us float : 

None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head! 


Let those arch eyes now softly shine, 
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland ; 
Ah! let them rest, those eyes, on mine! 
On mine let rest that lovely hand! 


My pent-up tears oppress my brain, 
My heart is swoln with love unsaid. 
Ah! let me weep, and tell my pain, 
And on thy shoulder rest my head! 


Before I die, — before the soul, 
Which now is mine, must re-attain 
Immunity from my control, 

And wander round the world again ; 


Before this teased, o’er-labored heart 
Forever leaves its vain employ, 

Dead to its deep habitual smart, 

And dead to hopes of future joy. 


LOVE POEMS. 185 


TOO ULATE. 


Each on his own strict line we move, 
And some find death ere they find love; 
So far apart their lives are thrown 

From the twin soul that halves their own. 


And sometimes, by still harder fate, 

The lovers meet, but meet too late. 

— Thy heart is mine! 7Zyrwue, true! ah, true! 
— Then, love, thy hand! Az, no! adieu! 


LONGING. 


Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 

For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 


Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes, 

And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me! 


Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth, 
Come now, and let me dream it truth; 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say, My love! why sufferest thou ? 


186 LOVE POEMS. 


Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 
For then the night will more than pay 


The hopeless longing of the day. 
MATTHEW ARNOLD. 





URANIA. 


SHE smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
While we for hopeless passion die ; 

Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
Were but men nobler than they are. 


Eagerly once her gracious ken 

Was turned upon the sons of men; 

But light the serious visage grew — 

She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. 


Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
Our labored, puny passion-fits, — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she! 


Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, 
One of some worthier race than ours! 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love. 


His eyes be like the starry lights, 

His voice like sounds of summer nights ; 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 

The magic of the universe! 


LOVE POEMS. 187 


And she to him will reach her hand, 
And gazing in his eyes will stand, 

And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
And cry, Long, long I’ve looked for thee. 


Then will she weep: with smiles, till then, 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men; 

Till then, her lovely eyes maintain 

Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. 


MatTrHEw ARNOLD, 





SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINE- 
VERE. 


A FRAGMENT. 


LIKE souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 
In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh’d between, 
And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather’d green 
From draughts of balmy air. 


Sometimes the linnet piped his song ; 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel’d along, 
Hush’d all the groves from fear of wrong: 


188 


LOVE POEMS. 


By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 


Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro’ the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 
She seem’d a part of joyous Spring; 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 
Closed in a golden ring. 


Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set; 
And fleeter now she skimm’d the plains 

Than she whose elfin prancer springs 

By night to eery warblings, 

When all the glimmering moorland rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 


As she fled fast thro’ sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play’d, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d 
The rein with dainty finger-tips, 


LOVE POEMS. 189 


A man had given all other bliss, 

And all his worldly worth for this, 

To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips. 


TENNYSON 


GUINEVERE. 


But I was first of all the kings who drew 

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair order of my Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men, 

To serve as model for the mighty world, 

And be the fair beginning of a time. 

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 

To reverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their conscience as their 
King, 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 

And worship her by years of noble.deeds, 

Until they won her, for indeed I knew 

Of no more subtle master under heaven 

Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 

Not only to keep down the base in man, 

But teach high thought, and amiable words, 


190 LOVE POEMS. 


And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
* * * * * * 
“Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 

I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 

I, whose vast pity almost make me die 

To see thee, laying there thy golden head, 

My pride in happier summers, at my feet, 

The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce 
law, 

The doom of treason and the flaming death, 

(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past 

The pang — which while I weigh’d thy heart with 
one 

Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, 

Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 

And all is past, the sin is sinn’d, and I, 

Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 

Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 

But how to take last leave of all I loved? 

O golden hair, with which I used to play 

Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, 

And beauty such as never woman wore, 

Until it came a kingdom’s curse with thee — 

I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, 

But Lancelot’s: nay, they never were the King’s. 

I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh, 

And in the flesh thou hast sinn’d: and mine own 
flesh, 

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries 

‘I loathe thee:’ yet not less, O Guinevere, 


LOVE POEMS. 191 


For I was ever virgin save for thee, 

My love thro’ flesh hath wrought into my life 

So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 

Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 

Hereafter in that world where all are pure 

We two may meet before high God, and thou 

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 

{ am thine husband — not a smaller sow, 

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 

Thro’ the thick night I hear the trumpet blow: 

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts 

Far down to that great battle in the west, 

Where I must strike against the man they call 

My sister’s son — no kin of mine, who leagues 

With lords of the White-Horse, heathen, and 
knights — 

Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet myself 

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom 

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event: 

But hither shall I never come again, 

Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, 

‘Farewell!’” 





TENNYSON. 


ALTHO’ THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 


ALTHO’ thou maun never be mine 
Altho’ even hope is denied 
*Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
Than aught in the world beside — Jessy. 


192 LOVE POEMS 


I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms: 
But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy! 


I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by the love-rolling ee; 
But why urge the tender confession 
*Gainst fortune’s cruel decree — Jessy! 
RoBerRT Burns 





CHANGES. 


WHoM first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 
And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 


Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; 
Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
God help us all! who need, indeed his care. 

And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep. 


My little boy begins to babble now 

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 

He has his father’s eager eyes I know; 
And, they say, too, his mother’s sunny hair. 


But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 

' I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago: 


LOVE POEMS. 193 


Who might have been . . . ah what, I dare not 
think! 

We are all changed. God judges for us best. 

God help us do our duty, and not shrink. 

_ And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest! 


But blame us women not, if some appear 

Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. 

Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to 
bear. 

Who knows the past? and who can judge us right? 


Ah! were we judged by what we might have been, 

And not by what we are — too apt to fall! 

My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 

These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know 
all! 


RoBERT BuLtwer LyTrTon, 


—_+o-—— 


TWO LOVES. 


DEEP within my heart of hearts, dear, 
Bound with all its strings, 

Two Loves are together reigning, 
Both are crowned like Kings; 

While my life, still uncomplaining, 
Rests beneath their wings. 


So they both will rule my heart, dear, 
Till it cease to beat: 


194 LOVE POEMS. 


No sway can be deeper, stronger, 
Truer, more complete ; 

Growing, as it lasts the longer 
Sweeter, and more sweet. 


One all life and time transfigures ; 
Piercing through and through 

Meaner things with magic splendor, 
Old, yet ever new: 

This — so strong and yet so tender — 
Is . . . my Love for you. 


Should it fail, — forgive my doubting 
In this world of pain, — 

Yet my other Love would ever 
Steadfastly remain ; 

And I know that I could never 
Turn to that in vain. 


Though its radiance may be fainter, 
Yet its task is wide; 

For it lives to comfort sorrows, 
Strengthen, calm, and guide, 

And from Trust and Honor borrows 
All its peace and pride. 


Will you blame my dreaming, even 
If the first were flown? 
Ah, I would not live without it, 
It is all your own: 
And the other — can you doubt it? — 


Yours, and yours alone. 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


LOVE POEMS. 195 


KING AND SLAVE. 


IF in my soul, dear, 
An omen should dwell, 
Bidding me pause, ere 
I love thee too well; 
If the whole circle 
Of noble and wise, 
With stern forebodings, 
Between us should rise ; — 


I will tell tev, dear, 
That Love reigns — a King, 
Where storms cannot reach him, 
And words cannot sting ; 
He counts it dishonor 
His faith to recall ; 
He trusts ; — and forever 
He gives — and gives all! 


I will tell ¢iee, dear, 
That Love is —a Slave, 

Who dreads thought of freedom, 
As life dreads the grave ; 

And if doubt or peril 
Of change there may be, 

Such fear would but drive him 


Still nearer to thee ! 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER: 


196 LOVE POEMS. 


LOVE. 


WE cannot live, except thus mutually 

We alternate, aware or unaware, 

The reflex act of life: and when we bear 

Our virtue onward most impulsively, 

Most full of invocation, and to be 

Most instantly compellant, certes, there 

We live most life, whoever breathes most air 
And counts his dying years by sun and sea. 

But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth 
Throw out her full force on another soul, 

The conscience and the concentration both 
Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole 
And aim consummated, is Love in sooth, 


As nature’s magnet-heat rounds pole with pole. 
Mrs. BROWNING 


FIDELIS. 


You have taken back the promise 
That you spoke so long ago; 
Taken back the heart you gave me, — 
I must even let it go. 
Where love once has breathed, Pride dieth: 
So I struggled, but in vain, 
First to keep the links together, 
Then to piece the broken chain. 


LOVE POEMS. 197 


But it might not be — so freely 
All your friendship I restore, 
And the heart that I had taken 
As my own forevermore. 
No shade of reproach shall touch you, 
Dread no more a claim from me: 
But I will not have you fancy 
That I count myself as free. 


I am bound by the old promise ; 
What can break that golden chain? 
Not even the words that you have spoken, 
Or the sharpness of my pain: 
Do you think because you fail me 
And draw back your hand to-day, 
That from out the heart I gave you 
My strong love can fade away? 


It will live. No eyes may see it; 
In my soul it will lie deep, 
Hidden from all; but I shall feel it 
Often stirring in its sleep. 
So remember, that the friendship, 
Which you now think poor and vain, 
Will endure in hope and patience, 
Till you ask for it again. 


Perhaps in some long twilight hour, 
Like those we have known of old, 
When past shadows gather round you, 
And your present friends grow cold, 
You may stretch your hands out towards me, — 


198 LOVE POEMS. 


Ah! you will —I know not when— 
I shall nurse my love and keep it 
Faithfully, for you, till then. 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER — 


2 OM 


A LOVE TOKEN. 


Do you grieve no costly offering 
To the Lady you can make? 

One there is, and gifts less worthy 
Queens have stooped to take. 


Take a Heart of virgin silver, 
Fashion it with heavy blows, 

Cast it into Love’s hot furnace 
When it fiercest glows. 


With Pain’s sharpest point transfix it, 
And then carve, in letters fair, 

Tender dreams and quaint devices, 
Fancies sweet and rare. 


Set within it Hope’s blue sapphire, 
Many-changing opal fears, 

Blood-red ruby-stones of daring, 
Mixed with pearly tears. 


And when you have wrought and labored 
Till the gift is all complete, 

You may humbly lay your offering 
At the Lady’s feet. 


LOVE POEMS. 199 


Should her mood perchance be gracious, 
With disdainful, smiling pride, 
She will place it with the trinkets 
Glittering at her side. ° 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 


——~Oe—— 


TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 


THOU lingering star, with less’ning ray, 
That lov’st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher’st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? 


That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallow’d grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we ’twas our last! 


Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, 
O’erhung with wildwoods, thick’ning green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twin’d am’rous round the raptur’d scene. 


200 LOVE POEMS. 


The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
The birds sang love on ev’ry spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim’d the speed of winged day. 


Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care! 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? 


RosertT BuRNS 
ee 


MARGARET ALONE AT HER SPINNING= 
WHEEL. 


(From Faust.) 


My Heart’s oppress’d, 
My peace is o’er; 

I know no rest, 
No, nevermore. 


The world’s a grave 
Where he is not; 

And grief is now 
My bitter lot. 


My wilder’d brain 
Is overwrought ; 

My feeble senses 
Are distraught. 


LOVE POEMS, 


My heart’s oppress’d, 
My peace is o’er; 
I know no rest, 
No, nevermore. 


For him I watch 
The live-long day, 

For him alone 
Abroad I stray. 


His lofty step, 
His bearing high, 
The smile of his lip, 


The power of his eye! 


His witching words, 


Their tones of bliss, 
His hand’s fond pressure, 


And then, his kiss! 


My heart’s oppress’d, 
My peace is o’er, 

I know no rest, 
No, nevermore. 


My bosom aches 
To feel him near. 
\h, could I clasp 
Ard fold him here’ 


201 


202 LOVE POEMS. 


In love’s fond blisses 
Entranc’d I’d lie, 
And die on his kisses, 

In ecstasy! 





MARGARET TO DOLCINO. 


Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell 

Plainer what tears are now showing too well. 

Had I not loved thee, my sky had been clear: 

Had I not loved thee, I had not been here, 
Weeping by thee. 


Ask if I love thee? How else could I borrow 
Pride from man’s slander, and strength from my 
sorrow? 
Laugh when they sneer at the fanatic’s bride, 
Knowing no bliss, save to toil and abide 
Weeping by thee. 


CHARLES KINGSLEY. 


DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 


THE world goes up and the world goes down, 
And the sunshine follows the rain, 
And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown 
Can never come over again, 
Sweet wife, 
No, never come over again. 


LOVE POEMS. 203 


For woman is warm though man be cold, 
And the night will follow the day, 
Till the heart which at even was weary and old 
Can rise in the morning gay, 
Sweet wife, 
To its work in the morning gay. 


CHARLES KINGSLEY. 


LOVE’S OMNIPRESENCE. 


WERE | as base as is the lowly plain, 

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, 

Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain 
Ascend to heaven, in honor of my love. 


Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 

And you, my Love, as humble and as low 

As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Whereso’er you were, with you my love should go. 


Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 

My love should shine on you like to the sun, 

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 

Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done. 


Whereso’er I am, below, or else above you, 
Whereso’er you are, my heart shall truly love you. 


J. SYLVESTER, 


204 LOVE POEMS. 


INCLUSIONS. 


I. 


Ou, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in 
thine? 

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie 
and pine! 

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . . unfit to 
plight with thine. 


II. 


Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to 
thine own? 

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a 
tear run down. 

Now leave a little space, Dear, . . . lest it should 
wet thine own. 


ITI. 


Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled 
with thy soul? — 

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand,... the 
part is in the whole!... 

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is 


joined to soul. 
Mrs. BROWNING, 


LOVE POEMS. 205 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


I. 


THERE is no one beside thee, and no one above 
thee ; 
Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings! 
Yet my words that would praise thee are impotent 
things, 
For none can express thee though all should ap- 
prove thee! 
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee. 


II. 


Say, what can I do for thee?... weary thee... 
grieve thee? 

Lean on my shoulder . . . new burdens to add? 
Weep my tears over thee . . . making thee sad? 
Oh, hold me not—love me not? let me retrieve 

thee! 


I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee. 
Mrs. BROWNING, 


——*>—_—_ 


TRANSLATIONS FROM HENRICH HEINE. 
IM WUNDERSCHONEN MONAT MAI. 


’TwAs in the glorious month of May, 
When all the buds were blowing, 

I felt —ah me, how sweet it was! — 
Love in my heart a-growing. 


206 LOVE POEMS. 


*Twas in the glorious month of May, 
When all the birds were quiring, 
In burning words I told her all 
My yearning, my aspiring. 


Sir THEODORE MARTIN 


WENN ICH IN DEINE AUGEN SEH’. 


DEAR, when I look into thine eyes, 

My deepest sorrow straightway flies ; 
But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then 
No thought remains of bygone pain. 


And when I lean upon thy breast, 
No dream of heaven could be more blest ; 
But, when thou say’st thou lovest me, 


I fall to weeping bitterly. 
ALMA STRETTELL, 


I. 


TuHou lovest me not, thou lovest me not! 
"Tis scarcely worth a sigh: 

Let me look in thy face, and no king in his place 
Is a gladder man than I. 


II. 


Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me well — 
Thy little red mouth has told: 

Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it is, 
My child, I am well consoled. 


Mrs. BROWNING 


LOVE POEMS. 207 


Dvu BIST WIE EIME BLUME. 


E’EN as a lovely flower 
So fair, so pure thou art; 

I gaze on thee, and sadness 
Comes stealing o’er my heart. 


My hands I fain had folded 
Upon thy soft brown hair, 

Praying that God may keep thee 
So lovely, pure, and fair. 


KATE FREILIGRATH KROEKER, 


I. 


THE years they come and go, 
The races drop in the grave, 
Yet never the love doth so, 
Which in my heart I have. 


II. 


Could I see thee but once, one day 
And sink down so on my knee, 
And die in thy sight while I say, 

“ Lady, I love but thee!” 


Mrs. BRownNInG 


208 


LOVE POEMS. 


SAPHIRE SIND DIE AUGEN DEIN. 


Two sapphires those dear eyes of thine, 
Soft as the skies above thee; 

Thrice happy is the man to whom 
Those dear eyes say: “I love thee.” 


A diamond is thy heart that gleams 
With rays of purest fire ; 

Thrice happy is the man for whom 
It glows with love’s desire. 


Two rubies are those lips of thine, 
Unrivalled in fresh glory ; 

Thrice happy is the man to whom 
They whisper their love story. 


Could I but find that lucky man, 
But meet that happy lover — 
Meet him alone in some dark wood, — 


His joy would soon be over. ... 
ALMA STRETTELL 


TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 
I. 
Cristram. 


TRISTRAM. 


Is she not come? The messenger was sure. 

Prop me upon the pillows once again. 

Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure. 

— Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the 
pane! 

What lights will those out to the northward be? 


THE PAGE. 


The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. 


TRISTRAM. 


Soft — who is that, stands by the dying fire? 


THE PAGE. 
Iseult. 
TRISTRAM. 
Ah! not the Iseult I desire. 
* * ** * a * 


209 


210 LOVE POEMS. 


What knight is this so weak and pale, 
Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, 
Propped on pillows in his bed, 
Gazing seaward for the light 

Of some ship that fights the gale 

On this wild December night? 

Over the sick man’s feet is spread 

A dark green forest-dress ; 

A gold harp leans against the bed, 
Ruddy in the fire’s light. 

I know him by his harp of goid, 
Famous in Arthur’s court of old; 

I know him by his forest-dress, — 
The peerless hunter, harper, knight, 
Tristram of Lyoness. 


What lady is this, whose silk attire 
Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? 
The ringlets on her shoulders lying 
In their flitting lustre vying 

With the clasp of burnished gold 
Which her heavy robe doth hold. 
Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 
As the driven snow are white; 

But her cheeks are sunk and pale. 

Is it that the bleak sea-gale 

Beating from the Atlantic sea 

On this coast of Brittany, 

Nips too keenly the sweet flower? 

Is it that a deep fatigue 

Hath come on her, a chilly fear, 


LOVE POEMS. 21) 


Passing all her youthful hour 

Spinning with her maidens here, 
Listlessly through the window-bars 
Gazing seawards many a league 

From her lonely shore-built tower, 
While the knights are at the wars? 

Or, perhaps, has her young heart 

Felt already some deeper smart, 

Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, 
Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair? 
Who is this snowdrop by the sea? — 

I know her by her mildness rare, 

Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; 
I know her by her rich silk dress, 

And her fragile loveliness, — 

The sweetest Christian soul alive, 

Iseult of Brittany. 


Iseult of Brittany? but where 

Is that other Iseult fair, 

That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen? 
She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore 

From Ireland to Cornwall bore, 

To Tyntagel, to the side 

Of King Marc, to be his bride? 

She who, as they voyaged, quaffed 

With Tristram that spiced magic draught 
Which since then forever rolls 

Through their blood, and binds their souls. 
Working love, but working teen? 

There were two Iseults who did sway 


212 LOVE POEMS. 


Each her hour of Tristram’s day ; 

But one possessed his waning time, 
The other his resplendent prime. 
Behold her here, the patient flower, 
Who possessed his darker hour! 
Iseult of the snow-white hand 
Watches pale by Tristram’s bed. 

She is here who had his gloom: 
Where art thou who hadst his bloom? 
One such kiss as those of yore 

Might thy dying knight restore! 

Does the love-draught work no more? 
Art thou cold, or false or dead, 

Iseult of Ireland? 


* * * * * * 


Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, 
And the knight sinks back on his pillows again; 
He is weak with fever and pain, 

And his spirit is not clear. 

Hark! he mutters in his sleep, 

As he wanders far from here, 

Changes place and time of year, 

And his closéd eye doth sweep 

O’er some fair unwintry sea, 

Not this fierce Atlantic deep, 

While he mutters brokenly, — 


TRISTRAM. 


The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails ; 
Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 


LOVE POEMS. 213 


And overhead the cloudless sky of May. 

“Ah! would I were in those green fields at play, 

Not pent on shipboard this delicious day! 

Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, 

Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, 

But pledge me in it first for courtesy.” 

Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like 
mine? 

Child, ’tis no water this, ‘tis poisoned wine! 

TSeult! 02: 


* * * * * * 


Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! 
Keep his eyelids; let him seem 
Not this fever-wasted wight 
Thinned and paled before his time, 
But the brilliant youthful knight 
In the glory of his prime, 

Sitting in the gilded barge, 

At thy side, thou lovely charge, 
Bending gayly o’er thy hand, 
Iseult of Ireland! 

And she too, that princess fair, 

If her bloom be now less rare, 
Let her have her youth again, 

Let her be as she was then! 

Let her have her proud dark eyes, 
And her petulant quick replies ; 
Let her sweep her dazzling hand 
With its gesture of command, 
And shake back her raven hair 


214 


LOVE POEMS. 


With the old imperious air! 

As of old, so let her be, 

That first Iseult, princess bright, 
Chatting with her youthful knight 
As he steers her o’er the sea, 
Quitting at her father’s will 

The green isle where she was bred, 
And her bower in Ireland, 

For the surge-beat Cornish strand ; 
Where the prince whom she must wed 
Dwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill, 
High above the sounding sea. 

And that golden cup her mother 
Gave her, that her future lord, 
Gave her, that King Mare and she, 
Might drink it on their marriage-day, 
And forever love each other, — 

Let her, as she sits on board, 

— Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly! — 
See it shine, and take it up, 

And to Tristram laughing say, — 
“Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 
Pledge me in my golden cup.” 

Let them drink it; let their hands 
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, 
As they feel the fatal bands 

Of a love they dare not name, 

With a wild delicious pain, 

Twine about their hearts again! 

Let the early summer be 

Once more round them, and the sea 


LOVE POEMS. 215 


Blue, and o’er its mirror kind 

Let the breath of the May-wind, 
Wandering through their drooping sails, 
Die on the green fields of Wales ; 

Let a dream like this restore 

What his eye must see no more. 


TRISTRAM. 


Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are 
drear : 

Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? 

Were feet like those made for so wild a way? 

The southern winter-parlor, by my fay, 

Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day! — 

“ Tristram! — nay, nay —thou must not take my 


hand ! — 
Tristram! — sweet love! — we are betrayed — out- 
planned. 
Fly — save thyself — save me! 1 dare not stay.” 
One last kiss first! — “’77%s vain — to horse — 
away!” 
* bd * * * * 


Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move 
Faster surely than it should, 

From the fever in his blood! 

All the spring-time of his love 

Is already gone and past, 

And instead thereof is seen 

Its winter, which endureth still, — 
Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, 


216 


LOVE POEMS. 


The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, 
The flying leaves, the straining blast, 
And that long, wild kiss, — their last. 
And this rough December-night, 
And his burning fever-pain, 

Mingle with his hurrying dream, 

Till they rule it; till he seem 

The pressed fugitive again, 

The love-desperate, banished knight, 
With a fire in his brain, 

Flying o’er the stormy main. 

— Whither does he wander now? 
Haply in his dreams the wind 

Wafts him here, and lets him find 
The lovely orphan child again 

In her castle by the coast ; 

The youngest, fairest chatelaine, 
That this realm of France can boast, 
Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, — 
Iseult of Brittany. 

And — for through the haggard air, 
The stained arms, the matted hair, 
Of that stranger-knight ill-starred, 
There gleamed something which recalled 
The Tristram who in better days 
Was Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard — 
Welcomed here, and here installed, 
Tended of his fever here, 

Haply he seems again to move 

His young guardian’s heart with love, 
In his exiled loneliness, 


LOVE POEMS. 217 


In his stately, deep distress, 
Without a word, without a tear. 

— Ah! ’tis well he should retrace 
His tranquil life in this lone place; 
His gentle bearing at the side 

Of his timid youthful bride ; 

His long rambles by the shore 

On winter-evenings, when the roar 
Of the near waves came, sadly grand, 
Through the dark, up the drowned sand3 
Or his endless reveries 

In the woods, where the gleams play 
On the grass under the trees, 
Passing the long summer’s day 

Idle as a mossy stone 

In the forest depths alone, 

The chase neglected, and his hound 
Couched beside him on the ground. 
— Ah! what trouble’s on his brow? 
Hither let him wander now; 

Hither, to the quiet hours 

Passed among these heaths of ours 
By the gray Atlantic sea, — 

Hours, if not of ecstasy, 

From violent anguish surely free! 


TRISTRAM, 


All red with blood the whirling river flows, 
The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with 
blows. 


218 LOVE POEMS. 


Upon as are the chivalry of Rome; 

Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in 
foam. 

“Up, Tristram, up:” men cry, “thou moonstruck 
knight! 

What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!” 

— Above the din, her voice is in my ears ; 

I see her form glide through the crossing spears. — 

Iseult! - 


* * * * * * 


Ah! he wanders forth again; 

We cannot keep him: now, as then, 
There’s a secret in his breast 

Which will never let him rest. 

These musing fits in the green wood, 
They cloud the brain, they dull the blood! 
— His sword is sharp, his horse is good; 
Beyond the mountains will he see 

The famous towns of Italy, 

And label with the blessed sign 

The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. 

At Arthur’s side he fights once more 
With the Roman Emperor. 

There’s many a gay knight where he goes 
Will help him to forget his care; 

The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air, 
The neighing steeds, the ringing blows, — 
Sick pining comes not where these are. 

— Ah! what boots it, that the jest 
Lightens every other brow, 


LOVE POEMS. 219 


What, that every other breast 
Dances as the trumpets blow, 

If one’s own heart beats not light 
On the waves of the tossed fight, 

If one’s self cannot get free 

From the clog of misery ? 

Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale 
Watching by the salt sea-tide, 
With her children at her side, 

For the gleam of thy white sail. 
Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! 
To our lonely sea complain, 

To our forests tell thy pain. 


TRISTRAM. 


All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, 

But it is moonlight in the open glade; 

And in the bottom of the glade shine clear 

The forest-chapel and the fountain near. 

—I think I have a fever in my blood; 

Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, 

Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. 

— Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear 
light. 

God! °tis Zev face plays in the waters bright! 

“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon, 

At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?” — 


Tseult! ... 
* * * * * x 


Ah, poor soul! if this be so, 
Only death can balm thy woe. 


220 LOVE POEMS. 


The solitudes of the green wood 
Had no medicine for thy mood ; 

The rushing battle cleared thy blood 
As little as did solitude. 

— Ah! his eyelids slowly break 
Their hot seals, and let him wake; 
What new change shall we now see? 
A happier? Worse it cannot be. 


TRISTRAM. 


Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire! 
Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright; 
The wind is down; but she'll not come to-night. 
Ah, no! she is asleep in Cornwall now, 

Far hence; her dreams are fair, smooth is her brow. 
Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. 

— 1 have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, 
Would take a score years from a strong man’s age; 
And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, 

Scant leisure for a second messenger. 

— My princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late! 
To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by; 

To-night my page shall keep me company. 

Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me! 
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I: 

This comes of nursing long and watching late. 

To bed — good-night! 


* * * * * * 


She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 
She came to the bedside; 


LOVE POEMS. 


She took his hands in hers, her tears 
Down on her slender fingers rained. 
She raised her eyes upon his face, 
Not with a look of wounded pride, 
A look as if the heart complained ; 
Her look was like a sad embrace, — 
The gaze of one who can divine 

A grief, and sympathize. 

Sweet flower! thy children’s eyes 
Are not more innocent than thine. 


But they sleep in sheltered rest, 

Like helpless babes in the warm nest, 
On the castle’s southern side; 

Where feebly comes the mournful roar 
Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
Through many a room and corridor. 
— Full on their window the moon’s ray 
Makes their chamber as bright as day. 
It shines upon the blank white walls, 
And on the snowy pillow falls, 

And on two angel-heads doth play 
Turned to each other; the eyes closed, 
The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 
Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; 
Through the soft-opened lips, the air 
Scarcely moves the coverlet. 

One little wandering arm is thrown 

At random on the counterpane, 

And often the fingers close in haste 


221 


222 


LOVE POEMS. 


As if their baby-owner chased 

The butterflies again. 

This stir they have, and this alone; 

But else they are so still! 

— Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still ; 

But were you at the window now, 

To look forth on the fairy sight 

Of your illumined haunts by night, 

To see the park-glades where you play 
Far lovelier than they are by day, 

To see the sparkle on the eaves, 

And upon every giant-bough 

Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 
Are jewelled with bright drops of rain, — 
How would your voices run again! 

And far beyond the sparkling trees 

Of the castle-park, one sees 

The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 
Moor behind moor, far, far away, 

Into the heart of Brittany. 

And here and there, locked by the land, 
Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, 
And many a stretch of watery sand 

All shining in the white moonbeams. 
But you see fairer in your dreams! 


What voices are these on the clear night air? 
What lights in the court, what steps on the stair? 


LOVE POEMS, 223 


1k 
¥seult of Ereland. 


TRISTRAM. 


RAISE the light, my page! that I may see her. — 
Thou art come at last, then, haughty queen! 

Long I’ve waited, long I’ve fought my fever ; 
Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. 


ISEULT. 


Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried: 
Bound I was, I could not break the band. 
Chide not with the past, but feel the present; 

I am here, we meet, I hold thy hand. 


TRISTRAM. 


Thou art come, indeed; thou hast rejoined me; 
Thou hast dared it — but too late to save. 

Fear not now that men should tax thine honor! 
I am dying; build (thou may’st) my grave. 


ISEULT. 


Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly! 
What! I hear these bitter words from thee? 

Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel ; 
Take my hand — dear Tristram, look on me! 


ay LOVE POEMS, 


TRISTRAM. 


I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage; 
Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. 

But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult! 
And thy beauty never was more fair. 


ISEULT. 


Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! 
I, like thee, have left my youth afar. 

Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers ; 
See my cheek and lips, how white they are! 


TRISTRAM. 


Thou art paler; but thy sweet charm, Iseult, 
Would not fade with the dull years away. 
Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! 

I forgive thee, Iseult! thou wilt stay? 


ISEULT. 


Fear me not, I will be always with thee; 
I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; 
Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, 
Joined at evening of their days again. 


TRISTRAM. 


No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding 
Something altered in thy courtly tone. 

Sit— sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived so 
In the green wood, all our lives, alone. 


LOVE POEMS. 5225 


ISEULT. 
Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me. 
Love like mine is altered in the breast: 
Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it ; 
Ah! it lives, because so: deep-suppressed! 


What! thou think’st men speak in courtly cham- — 
bers 
Words by which the wretched are consoled? 
What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler, 
Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? 


Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged hus- 
band, — 
That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! 
Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings, — 
Those were friends to make me false to thee! 


Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced, 
Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, — 
Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, 
Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? 


Vain and strange debate, where both have suffered, 
Both have passed a youth repressed and sad, 

Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 
And have now short space for being glad! 


Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy people 
Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, 

That a former rival shares her office, 
When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 


226 LOVE POEMS. 


I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, 
I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, 

Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, 
Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. 


She will ery, “Is this the foe I dreaded? 
This his idol, this that royal bride? 

Ah! an hour of health would purge his eyesight! 
Stay, pale quéen, forever by my side.” 


Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. 
I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 
Close thine eyes: this flooding moonlight blinds 
them. 
Nay, all’s well again! thou must not weep. 


TRISTRAM. 
I am happy! yet I feel there’s something 
Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. 
Through a mist I see thee; near — come nearer! 
Bend — bend down! I yet have much to say. 


ISEULT. 


Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow. — 
Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail! 
Call on God and on the holy angels! 
What, love, courage! — Christ! he is so pale. 


TRISTRAM. 


Hush, ‘tis vain: I feel my end approaching. 
This is what my mother said should be, 

When the fierce pains took her in the forest, 
The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 


LOVE POEMS. Zar 


“Son,” she said, “thy name shall be of sorrow; 
Tristram art thou called for my death’s sake.” 
So she said, and died in the drear forest. 
Grief since then his home with me doth make. 


Iam dying. Start not, nor look wildly! 
Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 
But, since living we were ununited, 
Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave. 


Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult ; 
Speak her fair, she is of royal blood. 

Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me: 
She will grant it; she is kind and good. 


Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee — 
One last kiss upon the living shore! 


ISEULT. 


Tristram! Tristram! stay — receive me with thee! 
Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! nevermore. 
* * * * * * 


You see them clear — the moon shines bright. 
Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, 

She sinks upon the ground; her hood 

Had fallen back, her arms outspread 

Still hold her lover’s hands; her head 

Is bowed, half-buried, on the bed. 

O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hair 

Lies in disordered streams ; and there, 


228 LOVE POEMS. 


Strung like white stars, the pearls still are; 
And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 
Flash on her white arms still, — 

The very same which yesternight 

Flashed in the silver sconces’ light, 

When the feast was gay and the laughter loud 
In Tyntagel’s palace proud. 

But then they decked a restless ghost 
With hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, 
And quivering lips on which the tide 

Of courtly speech abruptly died, 

And a glance which over the crowded floor, 
The dancers, and the festive host, 

Flew ever to the door; 

That the knights eyed her in surprise, 

And the dames whispered scoffingly, — 
“Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers: 
But yesternight and she would be 

As pale and still as withered flowers ; 

And now to-night she laughs and speaks, 
And has a color in her cheeks. 

Christ keep us from such fantasy! ” — 


Yes, now the longing is o’erpast, 

Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame, 
Shook her weak bosom day and night, 
Consumed her beauty like a flame, 

And dimmed it like the desert-blast. 

And though the curtains hide her face, 

Yet, were it lifted to the light, 

The sweet expression of her brow 


LOVE POEMS. 229 


Would charm the gazer, till his thought 
Erased the ravages of time, 

Filled up the hollow cheek, and brought 
A freshness back as of her prime, — 

So healing is her quiet now; 

So perfectly the lines express 

A tranquil, settled loveliness, 

Her younger rival’s purest grace. 


The air of the December-night 

Steals coldly around the chamber bright, 
Where those lifeless lovers be. 
Swinging with it, in the light 

Flaps the ghost-like tapestry. 

And on the arras wrought you see 

A stately huntsman, clad in green, 

And round him a fresh forest-scene. 

On that clear forest-knoll he stays, 
With his pack round him, and delays. 
He stares and stares, with troubled face, 
At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, 

At that bright, iron-figured door, 

And those blown rushes on the floor. 
He gazes down into the room 

With heated cheeks and flurried air, 
And to himself he seems to say,— 

“ What place ts this, and who are they ? 
Who ts that kneeling lady fair ? 

And on his pillows that pale knight 
Who seems of marble on a tomb? 

Flow comes it here, this chamber bright, 


230 LOVE POEMS. 


Through whose mullioned windows clear 
The castle-court all wet with rain, 

The drawbridge and the moat appear, 

And then the beach, and, marked with spray, 
The sunken reefs, and far away 

The unqutet bright Atlantic plain ? 

— What! has some glamour made me sleep, 
And sent me with my dogs to sweep, 

By night, with botsterous bugle-peal, 
Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, 
Not in the free green wood at all? 
-That knight's asleep, and at her prayer 
That lady by the bed doth kneel — 

Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal! 

— The wild boar rustles in his lair ; 

The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; 

But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 


Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, 

O hunter! and without a fear 

Thy golden-tasselled bugle blow, 

And through the glades thy pastime take — 
For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! 

For these thou seest are unmoved ; 

Cold, cold as those who lived and loved 

A thousand years ago. 


LOVE POEMS. 231 


Ill. 


Eseult of Writtany. 


A YEAR had flown, and o’er the sea away, 
In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay ; 
In King Marc’s chapel, in Tyntagel old: 
There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. 


The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, 

Had wandered forth. Her children were at play 
In a green circular hollow in the heath 

Which borders the seashore; a country path 
Creeps over it from the tilled fields behind. 

The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined ; 

And to one standing on them, far and near 

The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear 
Over the waste. The cirque of open ground 

Is light and green; the heather, which all round 
Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass 
Is strewn with rocks and many a shivered mass 
Of veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and there 
Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. 

In the smooth centre of the opening stood 
Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 
Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished green 
With scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food. 
Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, 
Watching her children play: their little hands 
Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 


232 LOVE POLS, 


Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams 
Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, 
Racing full speed, and startling in their rush 

The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 

Out of their glossy coverts; but when now 

Their cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow, 
Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair, 

In blinding masses showered the golden hair, 
Then Iseult called them to her, and the three 
Clustered under the holly-screen, and she 

Told them an old-world Breton history. 


Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood 
there, 

Under the hollies, in the clear still air, — 

Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 

Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. 

Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease, 

Moved up and down under the glossy trees ; 

But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, 

From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed, 

And still the children listened, their blue eyes 

Fixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise. 

Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, 

Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and 
wide, 

Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all away 

From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, 

Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams 

Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, 


LOVE POEMS. 233 


Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, 

The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 

And they would still have listened, till dark night 

Came keen and chill down on the heather bright ; 

But when the red glow on the sea grew cold, 

And the gray turrets of the castle old 

Looked sternly through the frosty evening-air, 

Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, 

And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, 

And le1 them home over the darkening heath. 
And is she happy? Does she see unmoved 

The days in which she might have lived and loved 

Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, 

One after one, to-morrow like to-day? 

Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will: 

Is it this thought which makes her mien so stil, 

Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 

So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet 

Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone 

Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, 

But even that comes languidly ; in truth, 

She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 

And now she will go home, and softly lay 

Her laughing children in their beds, and play 

A while with them before they sleep; and then 

She'll light her silver lamp, — which fishermen 

Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar, 

Along this iron coast, know like a star, — 

And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit 

Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; 

Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 


234 LOVE POEMS. 


Her children, or to listen to the wind. 

And when the clock peals midnight, she will move 

Her work away, and let her fingers rove 

Across the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound, 

Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; 

Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 

Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then 
rise, 

And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told 

Her rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold ; 

Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow’ll Fs 

To-day’s exact repeatet effigy. 

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 

The children, and the gray-haired seneschal, 

Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound, 

Are there the sole companions to be found. 

But these she loves; and noisier life than this 

She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. 

She has her children, too, and night and day 

Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, 

The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, 

The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, 

These are to her dear as to them; the tales 

With which this day the children she beguiled 

She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, 

In every hut along this sea-coast wild ; 

She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, 

Can forget all to hear them, as of old. 


Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, 
Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear 


LOVE POEMS. 235 


To all that has delighted them before, 

And lets us be what we were once no more. 

No: we may suffer deeply, yet retain 

Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, 

By what of old pleased us, and will again. 

No: ‘tis the gradual furnace of the world, 

In whose hot air our spirits are upcurled 

Until they crumble, or else grow like steel, 

Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring; 

Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, 

But takes away the power: this can avail, 

By drying up our joy in everything, 

To make our former pleasures all seem stale. 

This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit 

Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, 

Till for its sake alone we live and move, — 

Call it ambition, or remorse, or love, — 

This too can change us wholly, and make seem 

All which we djd before, shadow and dream. 
And yet, I swear, it angers me to see 

How this fool passion gulls men potently ; 

Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 

And an unnatural overheat at best. 

How they are full of languor and distress 

Not having it; which when they do possess, 

They straightway are burnt up with fume and care 

And spend their lives in posting here and there 

Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease 

Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. 

Like that bald Czsar, the famed Roman wight, 

Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 


236° LOVE POEMS. 


Who made a name at younger years than he; 
Or that renowned mirror of chivalry, 

Prince Alexander, Philip’s peerless son, 

Who carried the great war from Macedon 
Into the Soudan’s realm, and thundered on 
To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 


What tale did Iseult to the children say, 
Under the hollies, that bright winter’s day? 


She told them of the fairy-haunted land 

Away the other side of Brittany, 

Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; 

Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, 

Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine 
creeps, 

Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. 

For here he came with the fay Vivian, 

One April, when the warm days first began. 

He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 

On her white palfrey; here he met his end, 

In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. 

This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay 

Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear 

Before the children’s fancy him and her. 


Blowing between the stems, the forest-air 

Had loosened the brown locks of Vivian’s hair, 

Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue 
eyes 

Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 


LOK Te POLATS. 237 


Her palfrey’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 
For they had travelled far and not stopped yet. 

A brier in that tangled wilderness 

Had scored her white right hand, which she allows 
To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress ; 

The other warded off the drooping boughs. 

But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 

Fixed full on Merlin’s face, her stately prize. 

Her “havior had the morning’s fresh clear grace, 
The spirit of the woods was in her face ; 

She looked so witching fair, that learned wight 
Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, 

And he grew fond, and eager to obey 

His mistress, use her empire as she may. 


They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 
Peered ’twixt the stems; and the ground broke away 
In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook. 

And up as high as where they stood to look 

On the brook’s farther side was clear; but then 
The underwood and trees began again. 

This open glen was studded thick with thorns 
Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, 
Through last year’s fern, of the shy fallow-deer 
Who come at noon down to the water here. 

You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 

Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong 
The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, 

And the weird chipping of the woodpecker 

Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, 

And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere. 


238 LOVE POEMS. 


Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope’s brow, 

To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough 

Which glistening plays all round them, lone and 
mild, 

As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. 

Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 

The grass was dry and mossed, and you saw clear 

Across the hollow; white anemones 

Starred the cool turf, and clumps of primroses 

Ran out from the dark underwood behind. 

No fairer resting-place a man could find. 

“ Here let us halt,” said Merlin then; and she 

Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. 


They sate them down together, and a sleep 

Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 

Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, 

And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws, 
And takes it in her hand, and waves it over , 
The blossomed thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. 
Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, 
And made a little plot of magic ground. 

And in that daisied circle, as men say, 

Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day ; 

But she herself whither she will can rove — 

For she was passing weary of his love. 


MATTHEW ARNOLD 











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Ya 1 In Memoriam. By Tennyson. 

"A 2 Courtship of Miles Standish. By Long-- 
< fellow. 
3 Evangeline. By Longfellow, 
4 Hiawatha. By Longfellow, . ! 
5 Idylls of the King. By Tennyson. \ 
6 Love Poems. Selected. 
7 Lucile. By Meredith. 
8 Lalla Rookh. By Moore. 
9 Lady of the Lake. By Scott. 

10 Love’s Thread of Gold and Other 

Poems. Compiled by Rose Porter. 

11 Princess. By Tennyson. > 

12 Paradise Lost. By Milton. 

13 The Splendors of Nature and Other 
Poems. Compiled by John W. 
Chadwick. Ae. 

14 Longfellow’s Poems. 

15 Whittier’s Poems 


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